


Muse

by otakuashels



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Fluff and Smut, Insecurity, Lemon, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Model AU, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Protective Aziraphale (Good Omens), Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22343092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/otakuashels/pseuds/otakuashels
Summary: Aziraphale had always wanted to be a photographer. Wet behind the ears, sweaty palms clutching a freshly printed bachelor of arts. Hopeful and on fire with the desire to work, serious and ready for anything life could throw his way.  Overall, desperate,  Aziraphale was prepared to jump at the first company that offered him an internship. He should have read the fine print, should have flipped through the subject book. Aziraphale had always wanted to be a photographer but never once had he thought of male modeling. Much less being part of the photography team for the media's 'Incarnation of Sin itself.'
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 68





	1. Studio A

Aziraphale had always wanted to be a photographer. Ever since he had gotten that small cheap camera as a child on his fifth birthday, frogs to feet, everything was photographed. He took photos of everything he could, half-eaten apples, snakes in his fenced backyard, especially that oversized sword in the ancient artifacts exhibit. He loved art, and this was an art he excelled at and had taken that passion with him to the manicured lawns of the city's university. Wet behind the ears, sweaty palms clutching a freshly printed bachelor of arts. Hopeful and on fire with the desire to work, serious and ready for anything life could throw his way. Overall, desperate, Aziraphale was prepared to jump at the first company that offered him an internship. He should have read the fine print, should have flipped through the subject book. Aziraphale had always wanted to be a photographer but never once had he thought of male modeling. Much less being part of the photography team for the media's 'Incarnation of Sin itself.' 

"You want me to take photos of male models?"

"I want you to assist with the photos." Gabriel Archaeous corrected. The man was all but carved from ice. A square jawline that would make Hercules jealous, marred by a corporate smile that never came close to the summit of violet eyes. "And you won't be directing or taking photos right now. Its a paid internship, you are going to be assisting, assisting Beezle Morningstar." Trimmed nails tapped the correctly stapled papers sitting on the desk between them, dark brows arched as if questioning the blonde's intelligence. Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably in the leather seat, and not for the first time. The office was cool in temperature and atmosphere: Stark, white walls, like some old insane asylum. Everything shinned, trimmed, aligned to perfection. Aziraphale felt a wash of self-consciousness. Gabriel's grey suit was immaculate, pressed and creased, even the cufflinks gleamed like small golden eyes. A down the nose comparison to Aziraphale's white button-down which, while creased properly, was beginning to show its age just as the tan trousers that hugged his more than generous thighs. Maybe he really should take up the offered gym membership that came with the company benefits. 

"But I will be taking some photos, right?" His stomach clenched. He had been so excited when they had called him to offer the job that he had accepted on the spot and had called a cab to sign the paperwork. Maybe he should have read the fine print.

"That is between you and Beezle," Gabriel's lips pursed in annoyance. "And at the model's consent, of course," His fingers steepled, and he checked his watch. "You will need to report to Studio A at three o'clock sharp. Follow the signs." 

"Thank you, Sir." Aziraphale got to his feet, clutching his portfolio tightly. That had been a dismissal if he had ever heard one." The chair squealed loudly against the floor, and Aziraphale fumbled out of the office, checking his watch to hide his embarrassment. It was already two-thirty, and his stomach rumbled in disappointed protest and disappointment. It was just hitting two-thirty. There was no time for him to pop somewhere for a bite. He hadn't packed anything, and he didn't even know where the studio was. Blue eyes flicked over navy signs on the walls in relief. It was short-lived. He found himself in a mirrored elevator after some frazzled looking clerk had given him lackluster directions. Aziraphale looked down at the portfolio in his hands. He hadn't even started his first day yet, and he already felt like he was drowning. The lift slowed, the number six lighting up, he headed down to level one. 

Aziraphale glanced up with a polite smile for the newcomer to his small room of anxiety, the smile froze on his face. He had no interest in doing photography for male models, not for fashion magazines, not for clothing ads or salacious material. \\\even if that was the case, that didn't mean he lived under a rock ignorant of the media. The trends were significant. Everyone knew those sunglasses, the impossible flamming red hair curling around sharp cut shoulders. And many straight women and gay men knew those jean-clad legs: Anthony Crowley, one of the nation's top models. The man stared at him. A cigarette paused halfway to his lips. 

"Well, hello, you must be new." He lowered the unlit cigarette, a single brow raised. 

"I, yes...how?" Aziraphale stammered. He was usually so articulate. How could he tell? Was it written on his face, the uncertainty oozing from his pores? 

"I've worked with this company awhile, I know everyone here" Crowley stepped into the elevator. A rush washed over Aziraphale as he glanced at the man out of the corner of his eye. Aziraphale had magazines on his coffee table at home where Crowley was featured as the primary model or spread where the man stole the show. Tall, thin, and lean with just enough muscle that he didn't look emaciated. He was one of those men who had a crooked, tantalizingly wicked smile that made one confident his youth had been less than legal. 

And that long hair, always a weakness for Aziraphale. Aziraphale wasn't into photography for models, but that didn't mean he was ignorant that there was a man in this world that checked off nearly every physical attribute he lusted. The elevator was no longer cold, a bit warm. The heating must have kicked on finally. 

"What if I worked in filing or something?" Aziraphale countered, he hated awkward silences, conversation was much more comfortable. 

"Still would have met you by now." Crowley shrugged, sticking the cigarette in the breast pocket of his black button-up, the material clinging to his torso like a desperate lover. The elevator chimed, doors sliding shut. 

"Really?" Aziraphale did nothing to hide the doubt in his voice. Confidence was attractive, and arrogance was not. A person could cut themselves on those cheekbones. 

"Of course," Crowley shrugged, "Making sure contracts, paperwork, and projects are done on time and properly. Wouldn't you work more productive and be more attentive to the work and make sure that everything was done right for someone that you knew and some relationship with rather than just another file in the stack?"

"That's..." Aziraphale's mouth went dry, watching Crowley out of the corner of his eye. "Wiley," he settled. 

"That's basic human interactions," Crowley shrugged, head-turning to glance at him. The man fell silent for a moment, elevator bouncing as it came to a stop on the first floor, chiming as the door opened again. "So I wasn't wrong, you are new" He gestured for Aziraphale to slip out into the hall. "And you never told me your name," Crowley stepped out after him.

"Oh, yes, my apologies. That was terribly rude of me. Aziraphale, my name is Aziraphale," he smiled, turning to face the man. 

"Aziraphale...well, that's a mouthful" the elevator doors closed behind them "That kinda rings a bell." 

"Yes, well, mother got a doctorate in religious studies," his fingers pressed creases into the folder. 

"Sounds like it" Crowley shoved his long-fingered hands into the narrow back pockets of his jeans. His shoulders hunched in a maneuver that spoke of discomfort. Insecurity. "What some diety? Gate guard of the underworld or something?" his long legs split strides down the hall, and Aziraphale trailed after him, making sure to keep up. That type of body language wasn't what he would expect of a top model. 

"Angel, gate guard of Eden to be precise." A smile crept onto Aziraphale's face as Crowley snuck a look at him, his pace shortening to match the shorter blond. How did the man walk like that? Hips swinging and at that slant? Aziraphale would have fallen on his ass ages ago. Model Photos. Three-thirty. "Oh, shoot!" A charge of panic zipping through him, checking the face of his watch. It was five minutes until he had to be in the studio! "Blast it all I am going to be late!" 

"Oh! That concerned you are new!" Crowley's brow creased in concern at the panicked tone, posture straightening back to the confident swagger he was known to have. 

"I have no clue where I am going! Where the studio even is," Aziraphale was pissed at himself. All it had taken was a pretty face, and he had become distracted. His eyes darted about the hall, looking for those blue signs again. He couldn't be late on his first day! How could he have done this? "I am so sorry, but I must be going," he swallowed down the irritation.

"Where are you headed? I can point you in the right direction," Crowley's offered. 

"I am supposed to be meeting with my new boss" Aziraphale bit the inside of his cheek. He wouldn't be late if he hadn't stopped to fraternize. 

"Oh, so super new" A smirk crawled up Crowley's mouth, revealing those pointed canines, pleased with his correct assessment. "Who is it?"

"Beezle," Aziraphale peered at the third page of the contract, cautious hope flaring in his chest. Crowley claimed that he knew everyone. 

"Oh dear, you are new meat," Crowley whistled, shaking his head. "You are looking for studio A then. Well lucky for you, that is exactly where I'm heading. If you are working for Bee, then you must be the new photo assistant that Gabe was talking about." 

"Gabe," Aziraphale repeated, and the ginger snickered. 

"He hates it when I call him that. Pisses him off royally. Gets that tick in his jaw looks like he wants to murder me on the spot. Fantastic." 

"Aren't you worried that he is going to fire you?" Aziraphale stared at the man who grunted. 

"That stuck up prick fire me? Not. Ever since I started contracting with them, their sales and reputation have skyrocketed." He shot a hand into the air in dramatized representation. 

"A bit full of yourself, aren't you? A blonde brow arched as the model stared at him through dark sunglasses. The rumor was true, Crowley works the signature steampunk stylized glasses even inside. 

"I wouldn't call it full of myself when its right there in the books," Crowley countered defensively. "Ope, turn right here."

"I," The hand pressed into the small of Aziraphale's back, felt like a firebrand, catching him off guard and stealing his words. Was that a cologne or a high shelf merlot? And did Crowley have a fireplace at his home? Aziraphale swallowed, hoping his deep inhale presented as a nervous response to being late rather than the greedy sniff of the man's scent. "You never told me your name." They stepped into a room, a bustling studio, functionality its design — dark concrete floors. Vast, metallic equipment teams sliding paperwork between them, everyone adorned an earpiece, conversations swirling like storm clouds. Large cameras, shades, and adjustable lighting. He had never seen such a massive set up in person. Aziraphale had been in studios before, this was familiar, and a minuscule amount of tension dripped from his shoulders displaced with excitement. This was it — finally, a taste of the big leagues. Action caught his attention. A team was hauling a large bed in front of a reflective backdrop, one of them struggling beneath the weight of silken black sheets and curtains. Another scurried behind to catch the piles of fabric spilling onto the floor. 

"Well, here we are, Studio A!" Crowley gestured vaguely at all the motion. 

"Thank you" A broad smile accompanied the genuine exclamation. Aziraphale watched as the man's smirk evaporated, surprise evident. Aziraphale was unnecessarily aware of the hand leaving the small of his back. 

"A...Nah no big deal," Crowley crammed his hands back into his pockets. 

"Without you, I would have remained lost."

"You would have found your way eventually." 

"And late." Aziraphale nodded, determined to convince the other of his sincerity, a tingle in his fingertips. "Really. You are too kind."

"M'not kind," The impeccably tall man seemed to lose several inches in the blink of an eye. Shoulders hunched, and from this angle, Aziraphale caught a glimpse of those transcendent golden eyes. They took him away. In every photograph, he had ever seen, they had brimmed with confidence, bled sensuality, and sparked rage. But at this moment, they creased with uncertainty and nervousness. Darting. Searching for exits.

"Lore, you found the studio" A sharp voice cracked the moment, beside him Crowley snapped to attention instantly before shifting into that gravity-defying posture once more. A tall brunette clothed in a crisp white pantsuit strode towards them, ramrod straight with a neutral expression. Ex-military. Aziraphale would bet his evening dessert on it. 

"Ah, Micheal. I thought you were supposed to be on one of the underwater shots today."

"Crack in the tank." Micheal's lip curled, less than pleased with the circumstances.

"Well shit," Crowley muttered. "That means you and Bee have to work together. Oh, shit," he laughed as the crease on Micheals brow deepened, her lips pursing. Pointedly she turned from the redhead in favor of leveling her gaze on Aziraphale. 

"You are the new intern, underneath Beezle, I was told to fetch you. You're late."

"I" A cold sweat broke out the back of his neck, his blonde hair was going to be even frizzier than usual. 

"Nah, not late. He is simply derailed by way of pleasing me. Doing as he should by keeping his model happy," Crowley cut in, leaning into Aziraphale's space, elbow on his shoulder. As if they were best mates. "Tell Bee I like this one. I even want him assigned to my care team," a red strand of hair slipped loose from his high ponytail. Black painted nails tucked it behind his ear. Aziraphale's' eyes helpless, but to follow the movement. 

"Really?" Micheal clucked, "You don't like anyone." Her blunt statement and searching gaze on Aziraphale made him squirm. The disbelief was embarrassing, but he silently disagreed. He had only a brief interaction with this man. A top model no less, and here he was in tweed pants and an outdated, by high fashions standards, tartan bow tie. He was nothing special, but Crowley had given him nothing but rapt attention. Aziraphale didn't like to stand out. Photographers weren't supposed to be the center of attention, the subject was. Yet the redhead had made him the topic at hand. "Well," Micheal drew out the word as if providing Crowley with the opportunity to retract his statements. The lanky man just continued to grin at her, and she sighed. "Well, Mr.Lore, we should go" Micheal gestured for him to follow, turning heel and taking off to the right corner of the warehouse-sized studio, not bothering to see if he followed.

"Well, there you go!" Crowley made a sweeping gesture. "And you are on your way!"

"I." Aziraphale found himself consistently at a loss for words this morning, which was unlike him. It wasn't fair for the other man to do that, taking off his sunglasses without warning. God herself must have deemed gold was the only color good enough for those irises. He stared for a moment, watching as insecurity creased the taller man's eyes, and without thinking, Aziraphale thrust his hand forward. "Thank you again." 

"I am just remembering that we were never properly introduced," Crowley stared in surprise before his grin widened, and he took the handshake. It was black and white. Crowley's long fingers enveloped his shorter, thicker ones. Aziraphale was surprised to find that the man's hands were chilled, a vast difference to the hot press that had been on his back. "Anthony J. Crowley. Very excited to be working with you." He didn't give the blonde a chance to respond before lifting the man's hand to his lips, pressing a feather-like a kiss across Aziraphale's knuckles. "At your service Angel." 

"Mr. Lore, are you coming!" Micheals's impatience was a cold bucket of water on their bubble. The sunglasses dropped back over gold eyes, and Crowley released Aziraphale's hand. A small wave began his departure, and Crowley sauntered over to the far corner. 

"Oh, dear, coming!" 

***

"Anthony, you are late!" 

"Anathema, I thought I told you that I am never late. I arrive precisely when I mean to," Crowley grinned at the woman glaring at him from her spot next to the vanity of his changing room. Anathema Device, seamstress and makeup artist extraordinaire, aka Crowley's best friend. The woman had too much luscious dark hair piled atop her head, soft and inviting. The exact opposite of the glare she had for him through her horn-rimmed spectacles. She didn't have a smudge of makeup on, and she dressed like someone you would expect to see running a crystal shop in downtown rather than being connected to one of the largest modeling companies in Europe. Although if the awards kept coming in as they had been for the last year and a half, they would be number one soon enough.   
"Too bad your plans don't match for when you are supposed to be here" She pointed sharply at the chair in front of the overly lit mirror. 

"Alright, alright," Crowley raised his hands in surrender. He was briefly reminded of the brief handshake with the new photographer. His hands had been soft, warm, comfortable even. He usually wasn't so bold. "Do you need me to get into a robe first?" 

"No, you're wearing a button-up" She gestured again, and Crowley slipped liquidly into the chair. 

"So, what distracted you this time?" Anathema pulled the hairband from his hair with a tut. "We are going to have to wash and reset your hair. What did I tell you about wearing elastic bands before a shoot?" She punched the back of the chair lightly, "Especially when it's wet."

"I thought I was supposed to be the diva here" Crowley swung the chair around "Good, you got the spinny ones back," loping over to the chair in front of the sink. He dropped into it dramatically.

"Could you please sit like a human being for once?"

"Too much effort," Crowley drawled above the squeaking taps. "I can't wait until this shoot is over, woke late. Didn't get no coffee or breakfast. Dying here" 

"You know you aren't supposed to go into a shoot on an empty stomach, dammit Anthony, what if you pass out?" Her fingers scratched at his scalp before barking over her shoulder "Somebody get a black coffee and a piece of dry toast stat!"

"You're a doll," Crowley's eyes fluttered shut, always a sucker for a scalp massage. 

"And you're needy." Anathema rinsed the suds methodically. "Now tell me the real reason you were late. Even when you wake up late, you always stop at the coffee cart on the fourth floor and then grab a bagel with butter from the cafeteria staff on third. And then you waltz in, hand me half the bagel with some story about how I have to finish the other half cause it would be wasteful." 

"And I am not wrong."

"And you just want to ignore your diet without getting yelled at too much by Lily."

"She's so damn strict. When was the last time I could have chips without her hanging over my shoulder, counting the carbs?" Crowley huffed, his hair wrapped in a towel, and ushered back to the vanity. 

"Well, you are in fantastic shape, clear skin, and the envy of at least a good chunk of the world. Although with how much wine you consume under the table, I am not sure how you manage that. " Anathema shook her head, snagging her brush and hairdryer. "Now you have exactly how long it takes for me to low dry your hair to get your story straight. I recognize that look in your eyes, and I know that they brought in a whole slew of those interns today. And I am guessing one of them has caught your eye. "

The hairdryer screamed to life, and the familiar, comforting ritual took place, giving Crowley a moment to think. He hadn't been joking when he said that he knew everyone in the company. Gabriel was a stick in the mud, but his secretary Uriel knew how to keep a well-oiled machine, and that was easier when everyone knew everybody's faces. HE had honestly forgotten that the new interns were starting today, hadn't thought anything of it. Crowley certainly hadn't thought that someone looking like him would show up. Crowley was in the modeling field, paparazzi, photographers all of it. He had even been in small parts for movies when they needed a sex toy. He was surrounded by some of the world's most beautiful people. He had access to every temptation known to man, genuine, and not.  
Aziraphale Lore. What a name. What a mouthful of a name. The whole man was a mouthful. Crowley shifted in the chair. The man had naturally soft, curly hair, not a sniff of hairspray or product found. He wanted to touch it. Those blue eyes weren't enhanced by makeup, not stick or drop of liner anywhere. And that smile. That hadn't been taught that was natural. He hadn't been taught how to craft certain ones for specific situations. The emotions evident on his face, easy to read like a book whose binding had seen better days. The transparency was refreshing. The man had a kind aura, he was soft and vibrated with life. Crowley swallowed. The intern was everything he looked for in a man; he would bet that the man was even a couple of years his senior. And the way Aziraphale dressed, he was so adorable, comfortably classic. He looked like a man who would know his way around a good wine bottle and places that Crowley would even enjoy the food. Those hands. That smile. That mouth was meant to be kissed. He was even wrapped in a little bow. Crowley swore softly under his breath. It had been five minutes.


	2. Action

sntructedBeezle Morningstar was a woman straight out of a romance novel. Short, petite, naturally pretty, and terrifying. Any man's challenge, well any man who was interested in a woman that wanted to take him down just as bad. Dark eyes fell on him, lips pursed in annoyance. "You're late. On the first day, no less." She gestured at the other interns. They were all wearing nametags gathering in a small group around the beverages table.

"Oh, I-"  
"Go after Crowley," Micheal sighed from his side, "I found the man draped all over Mr. Lore like a lewd snake." 

"Why is it every time something goes wrong it involves Anthony" Beezle grunted, drawing a hand through her short hair. This seemed to be an unconscious action, which would explain the locks standing in frustrated disarray.

"Because that is who he is," Micheal shrugged, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the changing. A long line of doors against the far wall. Aziraphale observed that the studio housed rooms for many different models. From here, he could make out that some of them had black lettering marking the door. For the more permanent models, he presumed rather than the visiting. 

"Forget it. I'll punch Anthony later," Beezle muttered and shot a pointed look at the folder in his hands. "Aziraphale settled into a comfortable stance, feet pressed together, hands clasped in front of him. 'Ready to please,' His mother always said.

"So you are here on the photography internship, hand me your portfolio." 

"Oh, yes!" Carefully he handed over the proof of his work, his transgressional tardiness forgotten. He waited patiently, nervousness thrumming in his chest as she flipped through the prints. 

"The photographers are never allowed to see their interns work in advance. There is a specific team that does the analyzing, hiring blah blah blah." She nodded over one picture, shaking her head over the next. From this angle, Aziraphale couldn't tell which photos she was perusing. He wanted to. He desired to explain himself to convince her that what was ever displeasing to her was a solid piece of work. He sorely wished he could. 

"That's surprising," Aziraphale admitted, hands twisting slowly in a self-soothing manner. "One would think that the photographer would pick out their intern, you know someone whose work you liked."

"That's exactly why they don't want us to do it, and don't let us." She squinted, "Otherwise, we are likely to pick one that is close to our style, an easy job, someone who wouldn't get in our way." She shook her head and snapped the folder shut. "You've got an eye for detail, placement ad how to pick a subject."

"Thank you," Aziraphale smiled, fighting back the pride that stomped on the nervousness. He had worked so hard to get here, and it was nice to hear his work praised by a professional. He had heard of Beezle Morningstar. Her photos were cream of the crop. She stayed out of the media, and the only time she usually was caught in an article or photo was when she was with her older brother Lucifer Morningstar, the nation's most prominent film director. She had work displayed in art galleries all over the world. 

"But emotionless, hollow, insipid." 

"Oh," that burst the bubble of happiness, one giant fucking needle of disappointment. It must have been written across Aziraphale's face like a headline on the Sunday morning paper because she sighed. 

"If you were good at everything, then you wouldn't be here. You're here to learn." Beezle signaled with the folder, her other hand rubbing at the back of her neck in her discomfort. Mentoring wasn't one of her talents. "Your best photos are the ones with inanimate objects, but your works with live objects, people are lacking. Lifeless. Part of that is the model, yes, but a good photographer knows their subject's strengths and weakness and works with them to create a piece" Her hands wormed their way into the pockets of her suit jacket. "You need to rely on your model but not fall into the trap many novices do and rely too heavily upon a seasoned model." 

"Of course," Aziraphale nodded. The sting of her critique was still fresh. That wasn't the first time that he had heard that. Professors at university had more or less left the same feedback on his assignments. He had taken their words with a grain of salt, hoping that once he was out in the real world that the fairytale imagery would disappear out the window. "You're saying that I have to find my muse?"

"Well, yes," Beezle nodded a knowing look crossing her features. "Let me guess. You don't believe in that sentiment" Movement on the far side signified that the models were beginning to take their places. 

"Well, no," Aziraphale shook his head. "I don't see why I should have to fall in love just to create good works." 

"Fall in love?" Beezle took a stack of papers from a woman who presented proof. "Who said you have to fall in love with your muse?" She shook her head "My partner is not my muse, my muse is no longer alive, to be frank." She flipped through the papers, seemingly unsatisfied with the images "I did not love her in the way that you are referring to, although we became very close friends after time...the fourth and the six" She shook the papers and handed them back. "But if you happen to find your muse and they happen to be a partner, then consider yourself one lucky bastard." Beezle shook her head once again. "Well, it looks like they are ready for us." With a gesture to follow her, Beezle moved towards the corner of the room. 

Quick on her heals Aziraphale ensued, his thoughts sorting through the information that she had just presented him. He wasn't sure if it sat with him at all, a stone in his gut. First, he was late to meet his new boss, and then the woman had called his work emotionless, and then all but called him narrow-minded. It was one blow right after another. Aziraphale took a steadying breath as he caught up, physically and mentally. It did no good for him to be sour about the situation. He could turn this around, prove that he was more than a few missteps. His resolve hardened at the thought. He was going to succeed in this. This is what he had come for, and nothing was going to get in his way. He would prove that he didn't need a muse to do it.

Tripping to a stop just inches away from squashing the shorter women, he glanced around the well-lit station. It was the construction of an elegant bedroom, heavily centered with a four-poster bed draped in ruby red, trimmed in gold — a warm, vibrant color palette, down to the ornate rug stretching out beneath the wooden feet. Leaning forward to peer at the other stations revealed that they were variations of the same setup. Some spoke in winter colors of the same fashion, while others told stories of different cultures and past lives. Aziraphale hummed, "So this is the next theme? Bed" He looked to Beezle, who nodded. 

"Of sorts, it's more like 'This could be your lover' type of thing. This season is all about lust across time or something" Beezle picked up a camera, leaning over a clipboard with a tiny red print. "Have you ever worked with a professional model?" 

"Not on this scale, no, just at university." 

"So no, not with professionals. With students. With professionals, it is very different. You will learn that very quickly. Models are primadonna's and rightfully so. They sit atop pedestals in the media, and they will do anything instructed as long as it benefits them. But sometimes they don't, sometimes it's because of their own distractions and opinions that we can create emotional pieces and award-winning photos. "She held up a lens, eyeing it with distaste "Find a model who you can connect with in some form or another and keep them. The both of you will benefit in career and learning." Her attention shifted over her shoulder, a crease at the corner of her eyes, "Coffee?" 

"So you and Mr. Crowley have that kind of connection." 

"Well yes," Beezle nodded, a knowing look crossing her features now. "We work well together. Yes, although it is a shame, I did not find another muse in him, although I was lucky enough even to find one. Whoever finds him as theirs, they are in for a wild ride," Beezle shrugged, crossing her arms in impatience. "You going to take all day, Anthony?" The short question pulled Aziraphale's eyes from the bed to see Crowley sauntering over to them dressed in nothing but a black robe and a pair of well worn flip flops.

"I always arrive when I plan to," Crowley sniffed, pulling long gleaming red locks over his shoulder. This response was not a new one as a groan of annoyance alerted Aziraphale to the fact that a young woman was following behind the tall man. Thick rimmed glasses, and a bohemian skirted pointed in the direction of the seamstress. Her eyes swept over him in an appraising manner, and a wicked grin lit her features. That was unsettling. 

"You're new," She commented, shoving Crowley to the side for a handshake.

"Oy, Rude!" Crowley grunted, rubbing at his shoulder with a wounded expression. He winked at Aziraphale, who was mortified to find his cheeks pink. 

"Um pleasure. Aziraphale," he stammered in surprise as the woman grabbed his hand, shaking it vigorously. Someone was fond of caffeine.

"Anathema Device, head stylist, and costume designer."

'Glad you found your way, Angel," Crowley cut in, refusing to be left in the dust. Without the dark glasses to hide, the golden-yellow irises the emotions brightening them were clear as day. Crowley was pleased to see him again. Dare, he says delightedly.

"It seems he is not the only one who might have been lost this morning, could you take any longer to get ready, you are so inconsiderate" Beezle scoffed, her shoes clicking against the concrete loudly, closing the space between her and the willowy man. 

"As I said earlier to Anathema, I arrive precisely when I want to" Crowley heaved a dramatic sigh, hands waving as if to brush away a fly. Aziraphale was impressed by the fact that nothing spilled out of the styrofoam coffee cup. 

"And here they go," Anathema shrugged, shaking her head. 

"Where do they go?" Aziraphale eyed the pair carefully. Beezle had said that Crowley wasn't her muse, yet the secure connection between the couple was not arguable. 

"They fight all the time. That pair is like oil and water sometimes." 

"I am not so sure that it's fighting," Aziraphale tossed in his two cents, and the younger woman eyed him. 

"Go on."

"See, just listen and watch." He gestured to Beezle, whose hands had found purchase on her hips.   
"Just watch," Aziraphale gestured at the pair.

"Really? You are drinking coffee this close to a shoot, are you that lazy that you are just now getting it?" 

"Hey, this isn't normal? Did you sleep through your alarm? Did you sleep okay?" Aziraphale whispered into Anathema's ear.

"I can have my coffee whenever I damn well please and I am not the only one that is off this morning. Did you finally decide to try that diet? Where is your muffin? Seriously did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed? "Crowley sniffed loudly, allowing for Aziraphale's ss next translation.

"Just because I arrived and did my routine in a timely fashion does not mean you can be grumpy this morning. Seriously did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed?" The short woman huffed at the ginger who tipped back the cup, chugging the dregs. 

"Are you feeling okay? Did something happen you seem off" Aziraphale crossed his arms with a small smile as Anathema stared at him? His mother had always told him that he had a knack for reading people. Empathic she had called it. He rather liked that. It was one of the reasons he often avoided conflict with people, tended to get along with nearly everyone that he met. 

"Wow, that's creepy" A low whistled escaped Anathema, and an embarrassed smile lifted Aziraphale's lips. "I mean not creepy as what you just did was creepy. That's impressive! It's creepy because you have known them for a whole two minutes and yet you nailed it." She shook her head in disbelief. "You are going to work to just fine with our group," She beamed at him, and Aziraphale's smile was automatic. He was going to work just fine with this woman. 

"Come on, let's get going!" Beezle snapped, staring at him from the camera table. Crowley rolled his eyes behind her and grinned at Aziraphale, who hustled over to the table, once more eyeing it hungrily. Compact Cameras. Also known as a point-and-shoot camera.  
Zoom Compact Cameras, Advanced Compact Cameras,   
Adventure Cameras, DSLRs, Compact Mirrorless Cameras, Medium Format Camera Types. And that was the first half of the table. "Pick one" She gestured, and a thrill hummed through Aziraphale. Was he going to get to take a picture? Mind ticking over his lessons from university, and he eyed a single-lens reflex camera, the familiar weight comfortable in his hand. "Good hand it over, you are going to try and place the model today." 

"Of course," Aziraphale nodded, mildly disappointed but not surprised he turned to assess Crowley. He really should have brought along a water bottle, a thermos of tea, something, but his mouth wasn't usually this dry. Anathema knew how to dress a man. "That's a corset." it certainly was. The removal of the silken robe revealed something that Aziraphale would have expected on a woman. Black jeans were gone, no longer hiding long legs from the world, in their pace was faux modesty, stockings, held aloft by the delicate clasps that reached high, finding purchase in soft undergarments designed to cover much less. Ebony to match the lace framing the ruby corset. Never would Aziraphale have guessed that such a contraption could hold allure on a man. Anathema had chosen to leave Crowely's collar bones bare, free for fingertips to trace out to his shoulders. Secretly he was thankful that Anathema had gone easy on the makeup, enhancing not creating. Even just the subtlest of highlight drew further attention to the aristocratic cheekbones Crowley was blessed with, and the kohl framing his eyes ever so lightly made those unique irises pop. Aziraphale knew many women who would go to the crossroads for natural eyelashes that long. The main thing the model was criticized for regularly was that his mouth was less than full, for the current beauty standards were. People seemed to forget that men have thinner mouths than women typically. Didn't stop the tabloids from their stabbing commentary. But Anathema was a maestro with stain and brush. Rather than not eating anything this morning, it looked as if Crowley had spent the sunrise bathing in a window while picking through a bowl of freshly picked strawberries. They must have to keep the studio on the warm side so that the models didn't get too cold.

"So, where do you want me, Mr. Lore?" Crowley stared down at him from the bedroom, and Aziraphale paused. 

"Pardon?" Aziraphale blinked to clear his mind. Looking, actually looking around, he saw that Anathema was headed back to the changing rooms while Beezle and Crowley stared at him expectantly. Voices clamored about the warehouse-like place, alerting him to the fact that the other shoots had already started. 

"You are in charge of placing Crowley today, that's your first lesson." Beezle pointed to the stage, camera in hand. "So let's get started, we are on a schedule." 

"Yes, sorry," Aziraphale nodded, eyes flicking to Crowley, who shot him an encouraging smile. The model turned and crawled onto the bed, smack dab in the center, legs folded next to him, hands supporting the half lounged pose. He was trying to help. 

"No need to be nervous Angel, I don't bite unless I am asked," Crowley grinned, laughing at Beezles swear of annoyance. Aziraphale flushed. The man was bold, that was for sure. Aziraphale's eyes tripped over the tempting form, mind whirring as the flash next to him told him that Beezle was beginning to start photos. Crowley's red locks draped over one shoulder, golden eyes focusing on the lens. I don't bite unless I am asked...

"But what if I want you to bite?" Aziraphale posed the question. The phrase had given him an idea. Two pairs of eyes turned on him. "What's the theme of the shoot again?"

"Essentially it's This could be yours' " Beezle lowered the camera. 

"And its meant for the reader, men or women's magazine? Well, I guess the question is, who is the primary audience that consumes this magazine we are working on today?"

"Gay men, straight women." Beezle watched him.

"Mr. Crowley, could you perhaps slid to the right, your left side of the bed, one leg off please." Aziraphale's steps took him closer to the bed.

"Just Crowley will suffice, Angel." The red-headed man observed him, assessing his motions like a snake ready to strike. 

"What was the exact phrasing Ms. Morningstar?" Aziraphale stopped in front of Crowley a question on his features. Was he allowed to touch the model? Physically aid in the imagery that was painting itself across his mind's eye. The man was beautiful perfect for this stage. And not just physically, there was something in the lilt of that smile, the shine in his eye that begged Azirapahale to get to know him. 

"This could be your lover."

"Okay, that changes things."Aziraphale tilted his head to the side, eyes flicking to the scene behind Crowley. "If this was-"

"Don't ask, just do Mr. Lore," Beezle interrupted him. Aziraphale peered over his shoulder. The dark-haired woman arched a brow. "Well, go on. We don't have the time to lose."

"Yes, ma'am." Aziraphale nodded. Stepping around Crowley he was hyper-aware of the eyes that followed, leaning over the bed, Aziraphale pulled down the sheets, pulling them this way and that, shifting the pillows. It looked as if a couple had just crawled out of bed, and were planning to get right back in. He moved back, eyes meeting golden brown. He swallowed. He didn't know how to ask this. 

"Yes, you can touch." Crowley grinned, "Just nowhere you wouldn't in public, remember this isn't a bedroom."

"I would never-" Aziraphale mumbled, groans of annoyance coming from the head photographer. Crowley laughed, and for the third time that day, Aziraphale couldn't help but stare. Did people laugh like that? Head threw back, chest shaking. It was so genuine. He thought it was only for the movies. 

"I tease Angel, I tease." Crowley grinned, eyes bright with amusement. "Loosen up. Otherwise, we will never get any work done. Plus, I thought you wanted me to bite." 

"I do," Aziraphale nodded "Your lip," he continued as a confused expression that was Crowelys response. "Your bottom lip, the right side, but don't make it look coy. No." he shook his head. "Not coy or nervous, but excited and..." Aziraphale struggled for the words. His eyes slid over the man. "You are sitting perfect, one foot on the ground. The other knee pulled towards you on the bed as if you are waiting for your lover to pull you to your feet or join you back in bed. Like it's their decision. " he looked to the bedside table and then to Beezle. "Can we get two teacups for the nightstand and a plate with something sweet?"

"Props it is." Beezle nodded and whistled to a group of standing outside the small sets at the ready. Aziraphale looked back to Crowley. 

"Could you put one hand on the bed, uh, the one next to your knee. Yes, yep palm flat, fingers spread out. Yes, thank you." those were long fingers. Aziraphale's own twitched, but he kept them at clasped at his front. "Could you pull your hair over the opposite shoulder?"

"Like this?" Crowley hummed, reaching behind himself, the fingers of his left hand sliding up the side of his throat, behind his ear, scooping up the red strands and over his left shoulder. He swallowed, adams apple bobbing. Crowley peered up at him, waiting for the next step. The clink of porcelain on the nightstand alerted the pair to the setup. "You are doing great." Crowley murmured, and the last smidgen of fear was erased. He could do this, he had schooling, and he had the experience. A photographer and his model were partners. And he was a photographer whose model had more experience than him but the most patient one he had ever worked with. 

"Alright, now can I have you close your eyes please." he watched as the man listened. He looked downright kissable. Aziraphale shoved that thought down immediately. "Now, can you think of someone who could fulfill this role in your personal life. I don't need to know-how. But someone or even create someone you would like to welcome into your most private space." he swallowed. "On the count of three, thinking of them, and biting your lip, can you reach out as if to grab their hand and open your eyes?"

"Whatever you need, Angel." Crowley drawled, and Aziraphale snorted, stepping back to look at Beezle. The woman gave him a nod and stepped to wear, he pointed. Just shy of directly in front of the model. From this angle, the camera would catch all of the model, the tousled blankets, and the comforting treats on the nightstand. It was more believable than the spotless setup. Stepping back, Aziraphale swallowed dryly. 

"Alright, one, two, three." Gold met blue, and a hand reached for him. He was drowning, his voice nothing but a whisper. "Fuck."


	3. Chapter 3

"So, the new photographer, huh?" Anathema smiled across the glass tabletop at Crowley, a knowing look in her eye. The weather was perfect for a June evening, not a cloud smudged the dark blue and energy trimmed in downtown. Families, couples, and friends swarmed the streets as Crowley, and Anathema took to a patio table outside their favorite bar. Crowley's fingers pinched the stem of the wine glass, rolling around the blood-colored liquid. 

"Yeah, he is new, huh" the comment was as light as the cigarette smoke that curled into the hair above their heads. Crowley shot her a look over his sunglasses, tapping the edge of the tray. "What about him?" Chairs scraped across the concrete as people moved fo and from fables. Leaning back in his bar chair, left foot finding purchase atop the low fence that separated the patio from the crowds. 

"And that's all you have to say." Anathema leaned forward on her elbows, "bullshit, and I saw I eyeing him. He is just your type." She watched Crowley's head tip back to stare at the string of yellow lights hung over the open-air dining area. Stare was the wrong word, glare was appropriate. More than once, Crowley had exclaimed his distaste for the current trend of hanging string lights. 'It's like they like trying to make a parody of the stars.' 

"What do you want me to stay" he pressed the cigarette between his lips, rocking the chair onto it's two back legs before letting himself drop forward. Their waitress appeared with their food. A burger and fries steamed hot next to a new iced beer, sitting down in front of Anathema. Rare steak and broccoli in front of Crowley.

"Perfect, thank you," he smiled at the woman, Anathemas nose wrinkling at his meal as the waitress left.

"Damn, I can still hear Betsy mooing from across the table."

"The only way a steak should be eaten." smudging the cigarette in the ashtray, he grabbed a fork and knife.

"Yes, rare, not straight from the slaughterhouse." She shook her head a grabbed the glass ketchup bottle.

"Well, some of us have taste" Crowley sniffed and cut into his dinner with relish. He didn't have an interest in many types of food; he was notoriously picky, from sourcing to presentation. He always had had a taste for the more beautiful things in life.   
"And some of us aren't fond of eating leather, and we like to appreciate our food, and be as close as we can get to it." Crowley fired back, shoving a bite into his mouth. Something was pleasing about the give of flesh between his teeth. It reminded him of the time he had seen Lucifer's snake take down a rabbit when he had been over at the man's house. It had struck, agile, fangs piercing the flesh. He wondered if this was similar. Shaking the odd thought from his mind, he nodded his thanks as the waitress slid by to fill his empty wine glass. The food, atmosphere, and service were sublime, particularly for a bar. One of the reasons he kept coming back. The other, no one would suspect someone of his media status to be hanging in a bar known for its fatty hamburgers and remarkable tap collection. One of the last few bars you could smoke in, in the city. Greasy food, bad air, and a loud atmosphere. No one ever recognized him here. 

"Oh, shove off, enough stalling." Anathema's eyes rolled, dragging a fry through her the mound of ketchup on her plate. Crowley gave her a look. He liked fries and ketchup. Anathema liked ketchup and fries. He neglected her comment like he ignored her grunt of objection, snagging one of them from her plate. One wouldn't be bad for his skin, nevermind the wine, and the two cigarettes had had already finished since they sat down. Anathema was right, and he was damn lucky with his complexion. 

"You're not going to let it go." He exhaled deliberately through his nose, eyes narrowing her triumphant grin. "Fine, what about the photographer?" It was like drawing up an old school film reel, an image of Aziraphale sliding right over his mind's eye. The man was so fucking cute. 

"He is just your type." The bite she took was impressive for a wisp of a woman. 

"Yes, and?" Crowley focused his attention downwards, cutting the steak into uniform pieces, he would take half home, there was no shoot tomorrow he could eat it in the morning. 

"And I think he thinks you're cute too." 

"When did I ever say that he was cute?" He scoffed. A big warm smile, a little soft around the middle, fluffy hair, and a pair of the kindest baby blue eyes this side of heaven? Check, check, check, and check. 

"You didn't need to. You focused on Aziraphale for the entire shoot. And don't think Bee and I didn't notice that you call him Angel instead of Aziraphale. "

"He was nervous, and I wanted to make sure that he was feeling supported. And yeah, I call him angel because that is what his mother named him after. Garden of the East gate of Eden. Duh." he articulated around a stalk of broccoli, "Aziraphale is a mouthful."

"You don't chew with your mouth full! Nasty." She shook her head. "For someone so pretty, you have pretty awful table manners, to this day. Honestly." 

"Your the one who keeps having dinner with me." Crowley stabbed the air with his fork in her general direction. Swallowing, he grinned at her withering look. 

"Anathema is a mouthful as well, yet I don't get a cute nickname."

"Do you want a cute nickname?"

"Ew no."

"Then stop complaining." 

"And stop stalling."

"You are not going to let this go until I admit it, are you?" Crowley's hands flew into the air in agitation. "For the love of-" He shook his head and sighed. "Okay, yes, he is cute and my type. To the media's shock." His nose wrinkled. "I don't particularly enjoy rail-thin men, I like them shorter and-"

"You're a sucker for a joyful smile."

"Well, of course." Crowley leaned back in his chair once more, pausing just long enough to chew. "Who isn't? A smile that lifts the apples of one's cheeks, especially when they ruddy? It's divine incarnate." a wistful expression stole Anathema's words, Crowley's self-depreciation slipping out. "And those types of people are completely out of my league." His gaze fell to the table. Aziraphale Lore, a new intern photographer, was lost and nervous understandably, of course, it is his first day and all. The minute Bee handed him the reins, a transformation took place. He was professional, confident, and directed the set and Crowley with respect and authority. There had been a fire in his eye that resulted in a formation of connection in Crowley's chest. Aziraphale had dominated the bedroom set, which led Crowley to wonder if he would dominate in-, no those thoughts were not allowed, especially when one was wearing skinny jeans in a public venue. 

After the shoot, which Aziraphale had pointed out was at two o clock in the afternoon. He wanted to know why they were talking about breakfast and coffee at that time. The blonde had looked mortified to find out they had had a three am shoot, for the stars you know, and hadn't finished until six am. Aziraphale looked sick at the thought he might have to participate in one of those. He had appeared exhausted by the end of the shoot, everyone is typically, but he had even more so. After the last photo had been taken, Crowley itched to invite him out for a drink. Almost winked an invitation to have the blonde help him unlace. By the time Crowly had been freed from the torture device crafter by the patriarchy's most sensitive of insecurities, force-fed a glass of water and hopped back into his jeans, the man was gone. Bee announced that the intern had bid his goodbyes, in vomit true politeness, and had all but limped out to hail a cab. The depth of the disappointment at missing his chance was unsettling. 

"The only reason he is out of your league is that you work with him, and you don't want to hamper his chances at winning." Anathema raised her stein to summon another beer. 

"Chances of winning?" Crowley leaned forward, rolling up his long sleeves, elbows on the table. "Winning what? Are they raffling a camera or something? What has that got to do with me?"

"What do you-oh, wow, you don't know, do you?" Anathema's eyes widened comedically behind cat-eyed lenses. "Well, shit."   
***  
"Today was so long!" The whine was punctuated by the creaking of a well-loved chesterfield, the cushioned furniture giving comfortably around Aziraphale's form as he dropped onto it. A groan escaping the blonde as he leaned forward to undo the laces on his oxfords, tucking them dutifully under the sectional he was slumped on Upon arrival at the tall gleaming building in the modern portion of London, he had expected a quick afternoon with tedious paperwork and then to be on his way, a quick nip into his favorite cafe and later on home. Instead, he had been thrown into the deep end of the pool with floaties only half-inflated. University only prepared one so much for one's true vocation. Every poor sap needed work experience to fatten their resume. Aziraphale hadn't been ready for the immediate immersion. 

Running his hand through his hair, the crinkle of the plastic bag next to him reminded Aziraphale of its presence. His stomach growled loudly in agreement. It really was too long to go without eating. Lifting the plastic sack and shoving his hand to pull a long rectangular box. The sushi place just around the corner had the best sushi in town. He ate there every Friday night. Catching the bus from the university, he would hop off after class, pop into the shop, order a #4, a side of mochi, and a large boba tea. The ritual had started a year ago, and now he didn't even have to call ahead. He would show up to find his order ready behind the counter. At first, it was embarrassing, a man in his early thirties developing a sushi habit to eat alone every Friday night. It took a while, but he eventually grew comfortable with the idea. He liked lavish things, good food, good books, and nice clothes. So what that he has been single since his freshman year of college? So what he did all these things without someone to impress? He liked them, he enjoyed them, and Aziraphale didn't want to miss out on these things just because he was a party of one.

Pulling apart the cheap wooden chopsticks with a pop, he opened up the clear plastic lid inhaling deeply. "I love Sushi." One had to chew slowly, deliberately, enjoy every bite and every flavor. But tonight, his mind wouldn't stay still, and it wanted to ruminate over the day—what a doozy. Modeling wasn't his preference for the fact that he enjoyed it so much shocked him. Disappoint had been the main emotion flooding through Aziraphale as he realized what Gabriel had meant. He wasn't going to be the photographer. He was an assistant. An assistant that wasn't even promised the opportunity to hold a camera. He paused, a roll halfway to his mouth, and his eyes strayed to the magazine on his table. He had purchased the newest magazine and photo album of every place that he had applied to. Putting his chopsticks down, he leaned over and picked the magazine up off the table. The magazine Babylon was known for its gathering of the top-notch models and photographers worldwide. Contracting people from over thirty countries. 

His fingers slid over the glossy paper that was standard for magazines. Pulling it into his lap, he flipped open the book looking at the images. He recognized some of the faces from those he saw in the studio this afternoon. Last month had been a twist on different greek and Roman settings. Flipping to the sixth page, he came to a familiar set of eyes, a draw before and now even more so. Today those curls had been draped down Crowley's shoulders like a curtain of silk, in this photo they were so tightly curled and pinned against his scalp, held aloft by a laurel. Today Crowley had been dressed in tight stitches, form-fitting and revealing. He was dressed as desire, a desirable victorian woman of sorts. This was not the first time that Aziraphale had seen Crowley dressed in women's clothing. The model didn't seem to care about which gender he was portraying or being dressed as. He just did. He just was. And Aziraphale would argue that he looked beautiful in whatever they wore him in. Even today in the skinny jeans and simple button, hair pulled back in nothing but a simple ponytail, he was dashing. And here, in this photo was the appearance of modest, draped in folds of white fabric only his arms and throat exposed. Instead of a bed this time, he was sitting at a bar, wine glass in hand. The picture had been set up as of the reader was a friend coming in to see Crowley, and the ginger stopped talking to the bartender, smiling at you have his shoulder in greeting.  
Delight the name of the game. Aziraphale had been attracted to the man when he had been a face on a page, now that he had met him in person, he was in trouble. That not so easy smile brought with it flirtatious words and helpful dialogue. A flicker of hope lit inside his chest only to snuff itself out. Crowley was kind. He could see it in the way that he worked with Anathema and Bee. The way he talked to the set crew when they came to break everything down. Crowley hadn't been flirting with Aziraphale. He had just been nice like he had to everybody else in the building. The thought was sobering. Flicking the magazine shut, a sigh of acceptance escaped the blonde. 

Crowley was cute, hot, let's be real here fucking hot. But that was it. Aziraphale could look, that was it. He was here to work. No way someone who looked like that with that much success would be interested in a photographer fresh out of university. The ink was hardly dry on his degree. Not that Aziraphale wasn't assured of his skill, he had been accepted into a highly lucrative position right out of the gates, but he and Crowley were in different worlds that just happened to overlap on one set. The ginger man was nice, a nice person, and very lovely to look at it. His phone pinged. That was odd. Nobody talked to him on a Friday night. He always went home on Friday's ate his sushi, served up a glass of red, and then went to bed early with a book in hand. 

He pulled the mini-computer from his pocket, a small stroke of amusement running through him as it did every time. People seemed shocked when he pulled out the touch screen, and everyone assumed he was one of those people who refused to let go of the days of flip phones. It was an absurd idea. He loved to read. That was why when he was able to rent an apartment about this older couple's bookshop, he had been thrilled. Boxes and boxes of books remained at his mother's house back home. Couldn't precisely haul that cross country cheaply. When he had realized that he still wanted to read his usual amount but couldn't, he had turned towards the world of ebooks—hundreds of them on his phone at the tips of his fingers. Now assuredly, physical books would always reign supreme, but they did get quite cumbersome. A number that he did not recognize sat on the home screen.

Bring your portfolio tomorrow, and a camera. Lunch. Be ready. Don't be annoying and text back. Just do as you're told. -B

Another text flashed into the new thread. 

0800 St. James Park, water fountain. 

"A shoot on Saturday!" Aziraphale stared at his phone screen in dismay. But Saturday morning, he always went out for breakfast with Tracy! "Oh, shoot." This had come out of nowhere, was this normal? The thought of the 0200 photoshoots made him want to cry. He was early to rise and early to bed by nature. An erratic sleeping schedule wasn't something that he enjoyed at all. He needed a pattern, and he needed stability. Turning off the screen, he stared up at the ceiling, the back of the big couch cushioning his head, "What have I gotten myself into?" 

***

Pouring a generous amount of milk into the tartan thermos Aziraphale screwed the lid on tightly. He shifted between excitement and exasperation. He really did not want to go to work on a Saturday morning. He had promised Tracy descriptions of his first day on the job. It was Saturday. This was time for brunch. But this was also, admittedly only his second shift total, but his first time doing a shoot-off of company grounds. That in itself was special. Slipping the tartan into his beige messenger bag and shrugging it over the shoulder, the stairs down the back staircase creaked with use. He was going to be there in plenty of time. It was looking to rain. Standing on the stoop, Aziraphale stared up at the rolling clouds, distraught. Sure he had a compactable umbrella in his messenger bag, what self-respecting man didn't? But while an umbrella might cover his head and keep his shoulders dry but once the rain morphed into a torrential downtown, his oxfords would be soaked and the bottom of his trousers drenched. Utterly unpresentable and terribly uncomfortable. But if he hustled, maybe he could beat the rain. If he remembered correctly, the bandstand was not far from the east entrance where he was coming from. There he could take shelter. Clutching the strap of his bag, he stepped off with purpose, joining the multitude of people heading out for Saturday shopping sprees. Despite the impending rain, restaurants opened doors and windows. The smells of coffee, teas, and high-calorie munchies spilled out into the streets. If the rain held, it was going to be a gorgeous day. If it didn't, sandals would become rain boots, and children would find puddles. The sun would hide just as the people would inside, everything awash in a sort of pleasant melancholy. Aziraphale enjoyed the rain, especially afterward when the world appeared clean, tamping down smog and filling the lungs with air. Just the thought put a smile on his face. 

BEEP!

"Goodness!" It wasn't the honk that scared him, but the screeching tires and the sleek body of a black car skimming the curb at illegal speeds sure did. People lept away from the edge of the sidewalk, swearing and shouting, many making rude gestures. The passenger side window whirled down, red hair, and a crooked smile peered out at him. A low whistle escaped a man from behind Aziraphale from the small shop. 

'Wow, that's a Bentley, gotta be 1926.' 

"Hey, Angel, would you like a ride?" 

"Crowley?" Aziraphale bent over at the waist. Yep dark sunglasses and red wine hair. He swallowed. 

"The one and only." 

"A ride?" Aziraphale was much more articulate than he was presenting himself at this very moment. 

"Well yeah, we are both going to the park, setting up for a new photoshoot, yeah? And it looks like it's going to rain. Now I won't hinder you if you enjoy the walk, but I can get you there much faster this way." A slim brow added a question mark. 

"Oh," Aziraphale nodded, handing finding the handle before he completed the sentence. "Oh well, thank you very much," the interior of the car clashed sharply with his attire. Or he clashed with the interior of the vehicle. Either way, Crowley fits right in. Clicking the seatbelt again, he peered at Crowley, who grinned, and with a dangerous burst of speed, they were back in traffic. His hand was intimate with the 'oh shit' bar. "S-so, even the models, have to be here for this project?" he flinched, not sure how that woman didn't just become batter on the crosswalk. A side-eyed glance gave Aziraphale a good look at Crowley's profile. The soft light of an impending rainstorm was soft on those sharp angles. But even from this angle, Crowley had made sure his eyes were hidden from view, those victorian glasses had side panels. 

"That's what Bee said. I am guessing it is for the competition." Crowley shrugged. A furrow marred Aziraphale's brow. 

"Are the models in a competition?" 

"What?" Crowley glanced at him, "Nah, just you guys."

"Wait for what?" Aziraphale turned in the seat, Crowley staring back at him. "What competition?"


	4. Soggy Morning

The lawns of St James park were green and soggy, with moisture left from the night before. Thank the heavens who had ever created waterproof shoe spray. Otherwise, Aziraphale was confident that he would be appropriately annoyed at the moment. First, it was Saturday morning, second he as at work rather than enjoying a nice sit down at the cafe with Tracy. Alright, it evened out a bit to one if he counted the fact that not only had dashing man picked him up in a vintage car, but he had also swept over to the passenger side, all slanted graceful limbs and opened Aziraphale's door for him. The man even extended a hand to Aziraphale, which to Aziraphale's current mind, Aziraphale had been stupid enough to become shy and subtly rejected the offer suddenly. Downright foolish. Despite the abnormal work time, the beautiful (albeit terrifying) ride it was all colored in a dark hue by Crowley's casual comment of a competition. Crowley had looked just a surprised as Aziraphale felt. Aziraphale not knowing anything of this so-called competition, and Crowley mortified that Aziraphale had no clue what he was talking about. There were other models here that he recognized from the previous spread. There were seven of them, just as there were seven interns. 

"Good morning, Aziraphale" Anathema's greeting yanked him straight from his brooding, and he smiled at the woman on his right. In her hands, she carried a sheet of sticky name tags and a black sharpie. 

"Good morning dear, I am guessing its ice breaker time?" He loved ice breakers. He loved people and socializing, to be honest as long as it didn't get in the way of his regular schedule. Schedules were important. 

"Not really, but everyone needs name tags anyways."

"And you have no idea how to spell my name." That was common. He gestured for the pad of cheap name tags and the sharpie. Over his years of schooling, the butchering of his name was more often than not the case. In his seventh year, he had taken to writing down some of his favorite. Things like 'Azeraphale' "Azirafell' 'Azerafail' (although that was often used by bullies so not necessarily a choice but lazy creative) Scrawling out his name and peeling off the tag he stuck it on his left breast. "There we go" Handing back the items, Anathema smiled at him and moved on to the next intern. 

"I saw you yesterday, you are on Anthony Crowley's team, aren't you?" it sounded almost like an accusation. Turning Aziraphale found himself facing a rather portly man, hefty around the middle with a disappearing hairline. His name tag read 'Uriel.' 

"Yes, indeed!" Aziraphale thrust his hand forward, "Pleasure to make your acquaintance! I am Aziraphale." 

"Yes," the man hummed, eyeing his hand in contemplation before sighing and shaking it. "Uriel."

"And who are you working with?"

"Her name is Ruby, or at least that is what she goes by," Uriel sighed, gesturing to a shorter woman with voluminous black hair. He didn't recognize the woman, but he did know the woman that she was talking to. Tall and curvy was Lily Dawn. She had done more than one photo shoot with Crowley in the past. According to Tracy, who was all sorts fascinated by the gossip collum, Lily was beautiful to work with as long as you didn't piss her off. Supposedly when she did get angry, the production staff called her Lilith. The stereotypes for models were that they are drama queens, which not too make a blanket statement, but stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason. Sometimes the glass slipper does fit. 

"She seems lovely. So how did your shoot go yesterday?" Aziraphale was pleased to make acquaintances finally. It was a sign of a good employee. And he needed this job. 

"Really? Of course, I am going to tell you that it went well." Uriel huffed. 

"Well, that's good." Aziraphale smiled tentatively. 

"Why would I tell the competition anything else?" 

"What competition?" Aziraphale frowned. There it was again!

"What competition." Uriel snorted, shaking his head and looking back to the models with impatience. Tense silence settled over them, Uriel's eyes widening comically when he looked back at him. "Wait, you can't be serious. Oh, you are serious!" Uriel snorted, "Did you not read the packet when signed the paperwork?"

"What packet?" It was Aziraphale's turn to frown. The stout man shook his head "It should have been with your contract." 

"The only thing I received was the contract itself." Pulling the folder out from his messenger bag, he pulled the four stapled sheets of paper s from his portfolio. Uriel frowned. 

"That's ludicrous, Gabriel is so particular about paperwork." Uriel pulled his folder from the binder tucked beneath his arm.

"Mistakes happen" At least he wasn't the only one who had come with his entire portfolio based on the bulk of the folder. Chubby fingers pulled a thick packet out, handing it over. Aziraphale's eyes flicked over the information with ease, pale face only growing paler. This couldn't be right. This was an internship. Why would an internship be turned into some career battle royale? 

"Last minute, nerves overhear?" A high pitched voice joined the panicked voice in Aziraphale's head. Looking up presented Aziraphale with a tall woman dressed in neon shades and neon pink locks to match. "Jeremiel, although everyone calls me Jeri," a hand adorned in rings thrust forward, leaving Aziraphale no option but to shake it. 

"Aziraphale, pleasure. And you could say that" He sighed, watching her introduce herself to Uriel.

"Nobody handed him the competition info." Uriel sniffed, and the newcomer let out a whistle. 

"We'll talk about a rough Saturday morning." 

"That is certainly one way to put it." Aziraphale looked back to the paper in trepidation. Even with his reading speed, this was going to take some time to process. He handed the packet over. They were about to get started. 

"You want a rundown?" Jeri shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her skirt. "Can belt one out real quick." 

"I'd appreciate it." Aziraphale's smile was tired. He would have to ask Gabriel for a copy later and read it thoroughly. He was never going to jump the gun again. 

"Yeah, no prob," Jeri grinned, shooting Uriel an amused smile at the huff. "Oh come now, he is not the competition yet."

"Did you see how long the internship is?" Jeri double-checked, and Aziraphale knew that much. 

"Eight weeks." 

"Exactly six weeks of a photoshoot every week" She wiggled her fingers at the four other interns who were moving around talking. "Each to weed someone out." 

"Weed someone out?"

"Exactly, there are seven of us, which is the perfect number to take us all the way through. Each week there is going to be a photoshoot where we are going to be judged—pitted against each other. One of us is being sent home each week. Then in the last week, it will be the last two against each other. The winner gets a position as the companies newest photographer." Her grin was wide, faltering as she took in horror on Aziraphale's face. 

"Competition...weed out..." Aziraphale swallowed "I" that was too high pitched; he tried again. "I...I signed up for reality tv show about models and photographers!?"

***

"So he didn't know, huh? He seems like one of those people who would read all the paperwork. I mean, look at the way that he is dressed." Anathema hummed, taking the pink plastic thermos from Crowley, who nursed his own protectively. The pair watched the myriad of emotions flit across the blondes face like some underbudget sitcom. 

"Gabriel didn't give him all the paperwork, I am guessing." Crowley winced as the man began to fan himself. A sliver of panic zipped into his chest. Was the new man going to pass out?

"Well, I mean, you didn't know either."

"That's because I didn't check my work email."

"It was sent a month ago!"

"And I don't have it on my phone, its a pain." 

"But, you have the ability!"

"And companies can stop pollution of the ocean, yet you don't see them doing it!"

"Oh, don't go political!"

"Don't you go political hippie chick."

"Oh, cry me a river emo kid. Maybe if you didn't wear your sister's jeans, you would be able to focus more and stop being as conforming as can be."

"And maybe if you stayed away from the peyote a bit more often, you wouldn't be so scattered."

"Oh, don't get salty because your last tarot reading didn't go the way that you wanted." 

"Enough children." Beezle's grunt ended the sibling-like argument. The pair turned to look at the pale brunette who stared up at them, a look of displeasure paired with heavy bags under her eyes. She hated mornings. 

"If you're finally here, Bee, then that means that we must be getting started." Crowley sighed.

"I am not running this."

"But you are here, which means Gabriel is here, what is he parking the car? What did he drop you off a block away this time," Crowley grinned, ignoring the death glare sent his way. He and Anathema were the only ones in the group aware of the relationship between his photographer and the second in the command for the company. The two brunettes hadn't even put a label on it. They refused to. Acting like nothing was happening. Like they weren't do anything. No one should sleep with their boss. But it could be worse, at least they weren't from competing companies anymore. 

"Shut up."

"Alright, everyone focus. Eyes up here." The stern voice cut through the air, snagging the attention of everyone in the small corner of the park. 

"For the love - he is standing in St James Park Saturday morning in threat of a thunderstorm in a violet suit." Crowley scoffed. "All it's going to take is one slip and then mud and grass stains galore." He shook his head, pinky finger pushing his glasses up higher. 

***  
"So how long do you think that they are going to have us wait here," Uriel muttered, and Aziraphale shrugged. His eyes drifted across the lawn, drawn to legs and red hair Miles of black and topped with red. Crowley was bantering with Beezle and Anathema. That easy tilting back stance. How did he stand like that without falling over? Did Crowley even realize the strand of hair falling against his cheek? Someone should tuck it behind his ear. 

"Thank you for being punctual." the clap of large hands set the tone. Gabriel didn't want to be here. He wanted this to be done—this obligatory meeting. But this was the rules. "Now let's not waste any more time, you have a lot of work to do. Photographers, this afternoon, you will be taking your models out, getting to know them. Yesterday afternoon you had your first photoshoot with your model and your teacher. That was your trial run, to see what a live shoot looks like. Now, however, hands-on or off that was up to your teacher, but you worked with your model. That shoot does not count against you. They will be judged but not an eliminating round." Short sentences, straight and to the point. "The next photo shoot will be next Friday, and you have till then to plan. This afternoon at 5 o'clock, your models will be receiving a text message with the theme of this week's shoot. You have five days to think and create. Don't mess up. Go." It was an order. Turning on his heal, Gabriel walked back towards the parking lot. 

"Wait, we were dragged out to the park on a Saturday morning at eight in the morning for something that could have been an email!" Crowley shouted after the man. The noises erupting around him, affirmed his rage. 

"Where the hell is, Micheal?" Uriel huffed at Aziraphale's side "She would have just sent out a notice, I had plans this morning." 

"Like what? Using a pair of binoculars to spy on your neighbors and those two dogs you hate. Like you do every Saturday morning since you moved in?" 

"Excuse me?" Uriel stared at the woman, and Aziraphale was reminded of a small owl that puffed up in irritation, feathers sticking out every which way. 

"I heard Joel telling you to knock it off at the breakfast buffet, get headphones and a cable subscription." Jeri snorted, raising her hands in surrender at the red-faced short man resembled an angry tomato. "Alright, alright. Stepping back." Pink hair hit her cheeks, the old elastic letting hair slip. She rolled her eyes in Aziraphale's direction playfully. "It was lovely to meet you Aziraphale, but see that blonde over there, I fear she will eat my soul if I don't hurry along, you wanna talk about the embodiment of hangry. Lilith probably invented the term. And I would like at least make it to my first photo shoot." she gave a small wave and trotted off across the lawn. 

"On that cue, good luck, I suppose is the polite thing to say." Uriel huffed, smoothing his hands over his button-up. He was the closet to Aziraphale in formal dress, although Gabriel had blown him out of the water. 

"And-" Aziraphale couldn't get the words out before Uriel waddled away. There were too many unexpected things happening today.

"So how are you feeling, Angel?" the lilting voice was another surprise. One heck of a welcome surprise. Turning, he caught his reflection in the black lenses. 

"Crowley." He smiled, apples reddening. "I am doing very well, a little shocked," the smile faltered for a moment as the reality of the situation filtered back in. 'Oh my goodness, he tilts his head like a little puppy when he is concerned! He called me Angel again.' Aziraphale watched the red brows furrow. 

"Are you going to stay? I mean, I brought it up with Bee, and if Gabriel didn't give you the full paperwork packet, which did have a section for a signature, which means if you were to step out, then you aren't breaking a contract." His fingers wedged themselves into the narrow pockets. "I saw your face earlier, Anathema, and I guessed those two were telling you the details. And you didn't seem too thrilled, so I was just letting you know. You know, don't want you to feel like its an obligation when you were thrown under the bus." 

"I-" Anxiety that had been rushing through the morning stumbled. Aziraphale had an out. Too much had happened this morning. He didn't like things that went too fast. Never had been. An old soul his mother called him. He wasn't fond of change, he would deal with it, of course, everyone had to. It was required to grow up. But he didn't like it. He managed to make it work, working through it slowly. But this was too fast. He didn't want to do photography with models. He wanted to do other photography. He did get to work with Crowley, a man that he thought was more than attractive. 

He had seen Beezel's photography, had done research last night. The woman knew her way around a camera. It was a fantastic chance to study under an artist with proven talent. But he didn't want to compete. He had to fight already to get this job. He had thought that this was a professional internship. Not just some reality tv show. Not that people who did competition shows weren't professionals, but he just didn't-

"Angel?" 

"Pardon?" Aziraphale blinked, looking back up at the man. 

"You, you just stopped talking."

"Oh," Aziraphale nodded. He had gotten stuck in his head again. He did that often. It was how he dealt with things. Well not really, he often babbled but when it came to something, like big decisions that involved change his internal monologue often began to extend comically-

"Angel, are you alright?" The touch on his forearm derailed that mental train right off the tracks, a deliberately placed penny. 

"Yes, fine. Sorry, don't mean to be rude. Got lost in my thoughts, you see." Aziraphale smiled, attention focusing on the touch. He had gotten this position on his talent. He swallowed, offering another smile to the red-haired male. This attractive, attractive man. He didn't have any sway on this decision. Didn't even know he existed, just coworkers. But looking at him every day was going to be one heck of a perk. What else was he supposed to do? He needed a job, and the internship paid well. "But it's alright, and I am going to stay and compete. It could be a jolly good time." He didn't know what to make of the expression that twisted Crowley's mouth. 

"Well, good. Does that mean you are going to join me for lunch? Are you hungry?" 

"Ravenous." Aziraphale smiled, his stomach rumbled, backing up his statement. 

***  
That fucking smile. Those cheeks, like those cherub cheeks of the Sistine chapel. The man probably peeled himself off of the damn ceiling and came here to visit. And now here Crowley was, blessed. "So, what sounds good, Angel?" Crowley's fingers smoothed over the steering wheel, sliding onto the leather seat. He watched Aziraphale settle into the passenger side, messenger bag sitting on plush thighs. 

"Oh dear," Aziraphale chuckled "That's a loaded question. Restaurants around here are so divine. I got a list started when I moved here, and I have made a pretty fair dent, but I find so many that I like that I keep going back to the same ones, so I fear that the list is going rather slow. " He buckled himself, patting the bag in his lap fondly. 

"List, huh?" Crowley followed suit "So, what's at the top of that list." 

"The Ritz," Aziraphale announced wistfully. "Yet the waiting list is so long and you know how upscale places like that are. Important people get to jump to the front o the list. Makes it that much longer." He shrugged.

"Well," Crowley hummed, tucking that little note away for keeping. "Well, I can't get you the Ritz today. What sounds good right now?"

"Well, I always go to the cafe on Saturday mornings with my friend Tracey." Aziraphale nodded, "It's on the corner of Sanders and 48th."

"The one all in yellow?" Crowley pulled away from the curb, watching Aziraphale look at him from the corner of his eye. 

"You know it?"

"Know of it. Seen it. Never been inside. Not my type of haunt, but I'd be open to passing judgment once I've been there." 

"I'd love to show you." Aziraphale hoped that the twist in his belly was in response to the suave crooked smile flashed at him and not a sudden arrival of the stomach flu. 

"Perfect." Crowley snorted, as Aziraphale's hand flew to the assistance bar. "Oh, Angel."


	5. Prompt

"And you can look me straight in the face and tell me that you have never gotten in an accident or gotten a speeding ticket." It came out as a wheeze rather than a question.

"Yes." The long-suffering sigh escaped the redhead as he slumped against the leather seat. "Come on, Angel. You didn't die, did you?" 

"No, but the driver on the street over might have seen their life flash before their eyes." Aziraphale protested. 

"Do you want to eat, or do you want to complain about my driving?" Crowley gestured to the small window they sat outside of, a laminated poster taped to the window. "See, they are having a special on pancakes today. Something tells me that you like pancakes." 

"What do you mean by that?" Aziraphale huffed, his fingers twitched over the buttons of his waistcoat, an old insecurity threatening to rear its ugly head. 

"The way you talked about this cafe and its food. The sign says that they arespecialty, which if you and your friend, Tracey, was it? Come here every Saturday, then you must like their food, which means that the pancakes are probably on your list of favorites, so you probably like pancakes." Crowley gestured at the window. "Am I wrong?" 

"I-no, you're not wrong. Oh, don't look so cocky" Aziraphale forced a scowl that didn't need to be here. But there was that elegant arching brow once again. 

"I am allowed to, its a spoil of war." Crowley slipped from the car, the door closing behind him with ease before appearing miraculously at Azirphales door once again, opening and offering a hand. 

"You are so polite," Aziraphale flushed with pleasure, moving to get out of the seat, neck heating when he realized that he had forgotten to undo the seat buckle. "Well, bother it all." He mumbled, undoing the belt and taking the hand that was still offered towards him, and allowed the tall ginger to pull him to his feet with ease. "Thank you, perfect gentlemen, really." he smiled, and Crowley cringed. 

"Ah, Nah, not my style."

"Oh come now, you've been nothing but kind," Aziraphale argued, and even through the sunglasses, he could feel Crowley's scrutinizing glare. Large hands shut the door carefully behind him. 

"M'not kind. You aren't going to let this one go, are you?"

"I don't let things go when I am correct, no." Aziraphale's smile twitched. 

"You know, you're just enough of a bastard worth knowing." Crowley snorted, approval coating his words. "Fine, if we can settle. One Hell of a gentleman."

"Fine." Sucess put a bounce in Aziraphale's step as they made their way into the cafe. A tall white sign informed them about seating themselves and Aziraphale was happy to see that there was a table by the window, freshly bussed. "Perfect, right there." he gestured. Eyes taking in the pale blue table and the bright red fabric of the booth. The homemade menus with badly cropped pictures, and daisies sitting in a mason jar of water. Aziraphale suddenly felt uncomfortable. It as all so, regular. He fit in in a place like this. What was he thinking about bringing someone like Crowley here? They should have gone somewhere else. "Crowley-"

"It's so mom and pop. It's soooo much that its retro. I dig it." With that statement, a model draped in black and blessed with fire-colored hair limbed himself into a booth, manicured nails picking up a menu, entirely at ease. 

"I'm glad you like it. The foods even better." Aziraphale relaxed into the adjacent booth. Limbed. Limbed. It was the only way to describe the way that Crowley sat. He didn't sprawl, and he didn't slouch or slump. He was just all limbs, Aziraphale would bet his dessert that the man was double-jointed. Shrugging out of his messenger bag, Aziraphale placed it on the cushion beside him. 

"I believe you." Crowley flipped through the oversized menu, "Not my scene. I am picky. But there is something about mom and pop shops." He turned over the menu. "So...I don't really like sweets, so what else is good here?" he put the menu down. Aziraphale hadn't even picked up his, already knowing what he wanted. He looked so sure. "How about you order for me?" damn the smile that got him. Crowley swallowed. He would take this angel out to eat for every meal and always let the blonde order for him every time if it got that reaction. How could one man be so attractive? 

"You would trust me to order for you?" Aziraphale looked astonished.

"Sure order for me. Except for my drink, that I won't bend on." Crowley waved his hand casually. 

"But aren't you on a strict diet being a model and all that?" Aziraphale whispered, leaning across the table. He didn't want to draw unnecessary attention to his question. 

"Usually, but I'll make an exception today. We are supposed to be getting to know each other. The fewer restrictions, the better." He looked around the restaurant. "Are we allowed to smoke in here?" 

"What?" the question caught Aziraphale off guard. Crowley looked to him again. 

"I know most places have it banned these days, but some do allow it. Can we smoke in here?" 

"You smoke?" Aziraphale's hands clasped on top of the table. 

"Yeah," Crowley pulled a small silver case from his pocket. "I like it with my morning coffee and my nightcap." he wiggled the case before slipping it back into his pocket. "But since no one else is smoking in here, I am going to guess that it is a no go." Crowley shrugged. 

"I never would have guessed.."

"That I smoked?"

"No, I mean, yes. Since well-"

"Since I am a model." Crowley finished. "Yeah, that makes sense. My nutritionist would kill me if she found out. I don't smoke every day, but it's nice. I don't do it every day, but you know everybody has their vice." 

"Cigars," Aziraphale admitted, and Crowley stared. 

"I get it. I like a cigar when I drink hard liquor. Specifically a good whiskey or brandy. A cigar is the perfect pairing after a Charcuterie board." Aziraphale readjusted his hands. 

"Oh, that's a surprise. You don't. You don't seem like someone who would smoke."

"Not the stereotypical kind, no." Aziraphale shook his head "But, well, I do like my indulgences." he smiled at the waitress that suddenly appeared at the head of the table. 

"Well good morning gentleman how are you this fine morning." 

"Wonderful and you, Alyssa?"

"M'Fine." 

The waitress stared at the pair of them for a moment before she smiled. "Well, Mr. Lore, I didn't recognize you for a moment. You are usually with Tracey." Her eyes slid over Crowley, and her brow furrowed for a moment in confusion before she replaced it with a smile. "Your usual, Mr. Lore?"

"Of course, dear."

"And for you, sir."

"Coffee, black. Thanks." Crowley offered a smile, and the woman nodded. 

"Are you two ready to order, or should I come back after your drinks."

"We are ready, dear." Aziraphale nodded, taking charge. "I would like pancake special, and Cr-my friend here would like the breakfast sandwich with-" he hesitated. 

"Can I get it with fries?" Crowley's fingers drummed quietly. He wanted his coffee. 

"With chips instead of fruit, gotcha." She slipped the small notebook into her pocket, "I will have your drinks right out." With a smile to Aziraphale and another analyzing glance at Crowley, she slipped off, pausing at another table along the way. 

"Fries, huh?" Aziraphale was surprised to hear the term come out of the Englishmen. 

"Yeah, yeah." Crowley sighed. "You've heard Anathema, and she's got an accent. She is from America. We spend so much time together, and I even spent a year abroad at a school she attended. I was her and her mother's foreign exchange student for a year. Then when I came back over, she decided to give old London a shot and never left. " He grinned, "Having her as my designer and makeup artist may be part of my contract." He paused as Alyssa ran by his coffee. "Is that hot chocolate?" Crowley stared at the towering whip cream sagging beneath the weight of far too many rainbow sprinkles and breaching the brim of the well-loved coffee mug. 

"Oh yes, they do make a most wonderful cup." Aziraphale beamed happily, picking up his spoon to scoop off the top swirl. 

"Well..." Crowley tried to take a sip of the too-hot black as tar beverage, but it was impossible not to stare. Was it possible to make love to a spoon? Could one be accidentally pornographic? Aziraphale had a generous mouth, one his personal most excellent turns on but with the way those lips wrapped around that spoon, the small moan of pleasure that escaped the pale throat—tied in a tartan bow no less! Why didn't designers ever using pink and silver as a color pairing? Pinking sliding over silver was one of the most erotic things he had ever seen. Crowley knew he liked blue eyes, but blonde flashes fluttering in delight over blue eyes was ten times better. "Wha-" he took a sip. Fuck that burned, way too hot still. Good distraction. He shook his head "That's good that it's good. good." Crowley nodded as Aziraphale hummed. 

"So," The photographer put the spoon down to pick up the cup. "I knew you went to college, but what did you get a degree in?" Aziraphale peered over the sprinkle mountain at Crowley, who lifted a slim shrug. 

"Yeah, I ended up getting a master's in botany." 

"Botany?" Aziraphale lowered his mug in surprise. 

"That shocking?"

"Well, I just. I am afraid I don't know much about you, but with..." Aziraphale gestured helplessly, suddenly feeling like one of those judging people he disliked so very much "Aesthetic, it wasn't something that I would have expected. And with your career and all."

"You were thinking, drama, or fine arts. Perhaps acting." 

"Honestly, yes, I apologize."

"Why are you apologizing?"

"I judged a book by its cover. I hate when people do that."

"We all do that. We are human. If I saw you on the street, then I would have never guessed that you were into photography."

"Really?"

"Well yeah."

"Well, what then?"

"Wot?"

"What would you guess then?"

"Librarian, maybe an ancient literature professor or something. Yeah, or English." Crowley grinned. "Imagine that, you a professor." Crowley leaned forward on his elbows. "Imagine that."

"Oh, a professor would drive me nuts. Especially in English, half of those students are only in class because they have to be to fulfill their degree path. Unless I taught higher level, I think I would like to teach Latin, perhaps."

"Do you speak Latin? That's a dead language." 

"As much as one can speak a dead language. I can read it. I have an affinity for languages." Aziraphale preened beneath Crowely's impressed expression, that was nice. "Well then fine, if I am a professor in this little universe, do I get to guess what you would be?"

"Sure, why not."The lift to Crowley's lips told volumes. He was enjoying this banter. 

"Well, let me think." A flair filled Aziraphale's stomach. He knew the other was into men. Men and women, but according to his last interview, he usually was attracted to men. Not that someone like Crowley would be interested in someone like Aziraphale. His mind went over what little he knew, and he looked out the window, Crowley's car catching his attention. "A mechanic."

"A mechanic?" Crowley snorted "What gave you that idea, I don't know anything about working on cars. I can change my oil and a tire, and that's about it." 

"Yeah, but you love that car. I can tell by the condition you keep it in. So in another universe, I bet if you had the chance, that you would like to know how to do all the work on it so no one else would have to touch it."

"Her."

"Her? Oh yes, my apologies." Aziraphale looked back at him. Some people did gender their vehicles. 

"So a professor and a mechanic, huh? Well, that would be interesting. Full of drama and past heartbreaks." Crowley lifted the cup to his mouth and hesitated. This poke was playing dangerous waters. He didn't know anything personal about Aziraphale. All Crowley knew now that he didn't want to teach. He liked sweets, was very much his type, and had one of the brightest smiles on this side of Alpha Centauri. 

This little comment could make things awkward, but he had to know. "So what is this one of those alternative universes where we have to get together. Some wealthy professor who ends up falling in love with the small garage mechanic with a tragic past and they are twistedly compatible through all of their struggles?" Crowley grinned into his cup, a nervous smile, but he was good at acting, at hiding emotions. He had to for his job, Aziraphale would be none the wiser. "If you could stomach dating a man, that is."

"There would be nothing to stomach. It would be normal for me." Aziraphale's response was quick, and the dark red of his ears spoke volumes, and Crowley's stomach tumbled. That made him happier than it should. Before either of them got out in another word, Alyssa appeared at the end of their table with two oversized plates, heaped with piping hot food. 

"Alright, gentlemen" She placed them on the table as she announced. "I have one pancake special here with all the fixings for Mr. Fell here anddddd for Mr. Fell''s friend I have the breakfast sandwich with fruit on the side. Sorry out of chips. Anything else I can get for you. Shall I top off that coffee? More chocolate, Mr. Fell?" She didn't even pause to listen to their answer before whisking off to fetch the carafe. 

"She's good." Crowley hummed in appreciation. He didn't particularly like chatty servers. They had other things to do, and so did he. Politeness and friendliness was something he wanted and returned in kind, but you didn't need to be best friends with everyone that you met. 

"She's going to school for psychology." Aziraphale nodded, "I usually ask to get put in her section, I do so enjoy her chats. Sometimes she even takes her breaks with me if I pop in during an afternoon shift in the week." His gaze left Crowley's eyes, his sparking as he turned his attentions to his plate. 

Crowley blinked, he had forgotten his own, peering down he scrutinized the dish that Aziraphale had ordered for him. It was a breakfast sandwich, alright, and it was huge! Plate was an understatement. This was a platter. The viscous sandwich took up half of the egg white dishware, stuffed with fried eggs, thick-cut bacon, and what appeared to be farmer's cheese. It sat next to a colorful arrangement of plump strawberries, blackberries, raspberries scattered amongst a generous helping of blueberries and cantaloupe. His nutritionist was going to kill him. A shit-eating grin on his face, he whipped out his phone to snap a picture to Anathema and Bee. The earful was going to be worth it. And when the bacon crunched in the middle of his sandwich, under the cut of his teeth, Crowley confirmed. This meal was going to be worth the angry phone call from Lucy later. He would just have to go on an extra run before bed tonight.

"So, are we satisfied, gentlemen?" Alyssa popped up with their mugs, and the two stared at her, mouths full. Crowley's snort scratched his throat. She had timed that, and he knew it. He had pulled the same shit when he was a server back at university. Ask them when they take a far too large of a bite, and they can't bitch at you. The tilt to her mouth confirmed his suspicion. Aziraphale nodded with enthusiasm while Crowley jerked his head in thanks. She got the message and popped off as quickly as she had come.

A comfortable lull of silence fell over the pair as they focused on their meals, Aziraphale sneaking a glance. Crowley looked utterly out of place yet completely relaxed. Cutting into the stack of pancakes, Aziraphale hummed in delight as the syrup slumped over the edges. Good food was also food that was pretty—local syrup paired with pancakes made from scratch. Salty, crunchy hashbrowns, Aziraphale was in heaven. 

Oh my- He ate everything like that. Crowley froze, sandwich halfway to his mouth as he stared. The sounds escaping his lunch partner would have made for the perfect sex tape if they were any louder. How the hell was he supposed to walk out of here in these skinny jeans? He had to know he was doing it on purpose. 

"Crowley...Crowley?"

"Wot?" Crowley blinked. Aziraphale was talking to him. 

"Your phone is beeping." Aziraphale gestured, and Crowley leaned. 

"Indeed, it is." The vibrating cellphone in his pocket nearly went unnoticed. Wiping his hands off on the brown napkin, he fished it out of his back pocket. The buzzing sound meant that Bee was reaching out to him.

"Is it the photo prompt?" Aziraphale's cutlery scratched the plate. 

"Calm down, Angel, it probably isn't, its not afternoon yet." Crowley soothed, gesturing to the clock above the bar of the cafe. It was shy of 1100. 

"Oh, yes, quite right." 

Crowley hummed quietly, typing in the passcode to view the messages. Well, he had been wrong. "Angel, it looks like they released it early." The table jolted closer to him, and Crowley caught his coffee to make sure that it didn't spill. Looking up revealed Aziraphale leaning heavily on the table, fingers gripping the edge. Blye eyes wide with impatience. "Breathe, Angel."

"What is it? What's the prompt?" 

"Okay, okay." Looking back down at the phone, scrolling through the two-page long rant about this morning from Bee, he found the smaller text message and read aloud "Photo Shoot Prompt: Ancient Religion." Crowley frowned. "That ridiculously vague, like anything?"

"That's wonderful." Aziraphale leaned back, the plastic cushion of his chair squeaking loudly. His mind whirred, pulling up images of his mother's library, the hundred-year-old stacks at her university, his studies, and that of Newts. 

"Does that give you an idea Angel?"

"Crowley, we need, can we go to the library this afternoon."

"S'fine, but why?"

"How familiar are you with the Egyptian God, Apep?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! 
> 
> My goal is to continue with updates every two weeks. However, my main job is a direct service professional in the Care field which means I am still going to be working with the pandemic going on and I am essentially on-call all the time (did you know that you can be on call and not be paid, read the fine print folks!) SOo my schedule may be more chaotic than normal which may disrupt my writing schedule (or make it better and I can write more)  
> Thanks for your patience, comments, kudos, and enjoyment! 
> 
> Totally referencing the lovely and highly talented WhiteleyFoster for the first shoot idea
> 
> And the mechanic/professor Au speculation is a shoutout to the words master summerofspock
> 
> Go check both of them out!


	6. Stepping Stones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, I AM SO SORRY I have had no sense of time ever since all of this SIP and stuff has started. I thought I was only a week behind. Like I mentioned in the previous chapter I am in the care field so work has been more chaotic than its normal day to day. But I am still writing, just very slowly!
> 
> It's a small chapter, but necessary and a way to get my mind recentered with everything and back into the swing of things. But I should be back on track now! Thanks for your patience.
> 
> ________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

"The library? If you need to do research, then why don't we look everything up on our phones?" Crowley finally asked, parallel parking the Bentley in a small downtown shopping district. 

"Well, the library was my first thought, but I figured that since I know there is a place where I can get the right information that I need, it would make more sense. Plus, there is something satisfying about looking up the information in a book. Also, I have a friend who has a background in Egyptology, so why not go directly to the source, right?"

"They still teach Egyptology?" Crowley unbuckled and was gone. Opening Azirphale's door again.

"Yes." Aziraphale stared at him. How did he do that so fast? Probably the long legs. "Of course, they are still teaching Egyptology. It's the history of a specific culture."

"And people always love a good mummy." Crowley drawled, shutting the door. "It just amuses me that is still a thing."

"Couldn't that be argued about many things." Aziraphale hummed gesturing from Crowley to follow him down the street. "The person we are going to see can read hieroglyphs, so if I want accuracy in my shoot, I need to confer with him."

"Really?" He looked down at the shorter man in surprise "There are so many different pictures in the things on the little tablets, and stuff at museums how many words are in their alphabet? In a hieroglyphic alphabet?"

"Well, that is one of the intriguing things. Each of those pictures isn't a letter. They are sounds."

"Wait, seriously?" Crowley's steps stuttered as Aziraphale came to a stop in front of an eclectic looking bookshop up four steps from the sidewalk. There were posters about upcoming book releases, adds for rummage sales, gardening clubs, the whole nine yards of an interactive community. The green paint on the outside of the store had seen better days. The maroon lettering was all in bold. BOOKSHOP was newer than the green.

"Yes, sounds. It's quite a musical language." Aziraphale hustled up the steps. A high pitched bell jingling welcomed them as they crossed the threshold. Tall bookcases encompassed the space, sagging beneath the weight of used books and vinyl records—the unmistakable smell of Irish breakfast permeated the expanse. Sounds of quiet shuffling amongst the stacks let them know they weren't the exclusive customers in the shop. Across the way, at the checkout counter, a square spectacled man in his twenties glanced up, brown hair flopping over his forehead. 

"Aziraphale, hello. I didn't know that you were coming by today." 

"Newton, good day! I hadn't been planning to, but unexpected things do happen" Aziraphale beamed, with a gesture, he drew Crowley into the conversation. "Newton this is, Crowley 

"Crowley..." Newton repeated, staring at the taller man.

"Nice to meet you." Crowley shoved his hand forward, and the younger brunet stared at it for a moment as if abruptly misremembering the customary action that was too take place with such a gesture. 

"Oh yeah, hello! Nice to meet you." Newton grasped his hand weakly.

"Yeah." Crowley presumed that Newton was a nervous sort of young man. Far past the age where one should be content in their skin. But Crowley was at least half a decade older than the bookshop owner, and even he wasn't always comfortable in his skin, so who was he to judge. 

"So, um, what are you pair up to today, you know coming to my shop Aziraphale?" 

"Well, you see-" Aziraphale stared at the disoriented expression on Newton's face and then glanced to Crowley, that uneasy feeling back in his gut. He had done it again. Crowley had looked so out of place in his favorite cafe, yet molded into it flawlessly after mere moments. He was a model, though; he was supposed to become whatever was required of him, right? And here was Aziraphale pulling him into a bookshop, where he once again stuck out like a sore thumb. A habit was developing that Aziraphale wasn't particularly pleased with. 

"We work together and have a project we have to build. It's something about Egypt, right, Angel?" Crowley hummed. Newton's brows darted right up into his messy mop, and he shot a glance at Aziraphale. 

"Yes." Aziraphale murmured, shuffling under the dual scrutiny. "I, we, need a book on Egyptian Gods, particularly Apophis. But don't get up I know where the history section is." He gestured to the far left back wall. "I can help myself." 

"Yeah." Newton nodded, the floor creaking beneath Azirphales' feet, making his way away from the awkward bubble around the checkout counter. Amongst books and bookshelves, he felt at home. Easing through the shelves, the tension abated from Aziraphale's shoulders in the familiarity of the aisles. In the back of his mind, he was hyper-aware of Crowley's presence. 

"You seem to know this place well," Crowley hummed, sauntering after him. The ginger gazed at the titles of books with mild interest, books that Aziraphale had to crane his neck to read or forced him to go in search of one of the rickety stepstools scattered about the shop. 

"Yes, I am quite fond of Newt and his shop."

"Did I see it correct?"

"See what?" Aziraphale dragged his pointer finger along the edges of the shelves as he looked for the book in his mind's eye. 

"He was doing the store finances, uh, purchases, and whatnot on paper."

"You mean a ledger."

"Yeah, that's the word. But you know smartphones, computers, and all that, and Newton is doing it on a ledger."

"Computers hate him."

"What?" Crowley's gave flipped to Aziraphale as if doublechecking that he had heard the blonde right.

"Computers hate him," Aziraphale repeated. "All he has to do is touch it, and then they go all wonky and haywire. That sort of thing." 

"You jest."

"No, I most certainly do not." Aziraphale huffed. "It's quite terrifying actually. AH, ha!" Aziraphale came to a stop in front of a series of books of bright chartreuse and scrawling gold letters. Egypt and her Gods Aziraphale plucked the volume with II at its base and opened it to the table of contents. 

"That was fast." Crowley peered over his shoulder, inhaling silently. The man did smell like tea leaves. Crowley wondered how much tea one had to drink to have that happen. He liked it. 

"I had to do a project on Egypt in college. I own all of this set, but it's at my mother's."

"Your mothers?"

"Yeah, she lives a couple of hours south." Aziraphale took a deep breath, steadying, as Crowley's washed over the nape of his neck. This close, he could nearly feel the long lines of the pale man standing behind him. How on God's green earth was he supposed to focus on the task at hand with a man like this nearly dropped over him like a cashmere sweater? "Uh, right, yes, right here. Apep" He flipped to page 98, and Crowley hummed. 

"Yeah, you said snake god, right?"

"Not just a snake god. THE snake god." Aziraphale cleared his throat, his free hand dipping into the pocket of his trousers and fishing out his reading glasses. 

"You have glasses?"

"Only when I read it. Helps with the eye strain." 

"Ah, fair." Crowley nodded. That.Is.So. Fucking.Cute. 

"In ancient Egyptian theology, Apophis, also known as Apep, is the Great Serpent, son of the sun god Ra.  
The sun is Ra's great barge, which floated from dawn to dusk throughout the sky and then fell into the underworld. As it navigated through night's darkness, this was assaulted by Apophis, who sought to destroy Ra and impede daylight. A variety of different gods and goddesses on top of the massive ship are portrayed in various periods, as well as the dead, who fought the serpent.  
Apophis is most often illustrated as a coiled snake, but is sometimes sliced into fragments, or under assault, and dismembered. A notable portrayal something along the same themes comes from Spell 17 of The Dead's  
Egyptian Book in which Apophis is destroyed with a knife by the great cat Mau." Aziraphale flipped to the next page, depicting an image of the scene. 

"So, you want me to be a demon?" Reaching around Crowley's fingers pinched the top of the page as if steadying the image for himself. 

"No, I want you to be a serpent god." Aziraphale murmured. Damn those arms were long, so were those fingers. Aziraphale wasn't a small man by any means, but he was confident that the model's hands could encompass his own. "Do you play any instruments?" his curiosity got the better of him, and the warm chuckle he received was more than enough payment. 

"Classically trained in piano." 

"Ah, you've got the hands for it," Aziraphale explained, forcing his eyes away from Crowley's fingers to the image. Ideas swirled through his mind. Ancient Egypt. Photoshoot. Culture. Lighting. Model. Comfort.  
"Do you like snakes?"

"Love them, why?" 

"Would you be comfortable holding one."

"Of course. Why?"

"I have an idea for a photoshoot, but only if you're comfortable." Aziraphale turned his head, startling. He knew Crowley was close but didn't think he was that close. At this angle, Crowley's glasses slipped down his nose, and he could see those eyes. He swallowed. Telling himself the nervousness was in response to the bewildered expression on Crowley's face and not the questionable position they were in. If Aziraphale were an inch taller, he wouldn't have to rise on his toes...nope! Brain is not allowed to down that alley. 

"Uh-" Crowley paused. Damn those eyes. If he ever had to die by drowning, he hoped the waters were the color of this man's eyes. Wow, that was morbid. A little to close to Shakespeare. Comfort? The man, his new photographer, was hinging his entire idea, which, if it was excellent, could help secure his career. Aziraphale was basing it on Crowley's comfort levels. Handsome, quirky, and kind. And smelt good. With all the modest clothing, wrapped up like a picture-perfect boxing day gift. Lips parting on a breath he smiled. "Come home with me, Angel."


	7. Set the Stage

Who the hell phrases it like that! 'Come home with me angel' Who says that! He didn't mean to say that! He wasn't propositioning the man! The loud thump alerted Crowley that the steering wheel had probably won the battle, which meant a bruise was going to bloom across his forehead shortly. Bee was going to be so pissed. It was going to require extra makeup if it didn't fade by Friday morning. The Bentley hummed impatiently beneath his fingertips as she idled in front of the bookshop/apartment structure. He couldn't get the mortified expression out of his mind.

***

_"I have an idea for a photo shoot, but only if you're comfortable." Aziraphale turned his head, startling. He knew Crowley was close but didn't think he was that close. At this angle, Crowley's glasses slipped down his nose, and he could see those eyes. He swallowed. Telling himself the nervousness was in response to the bewildered expression on Crowley's face and not the questionable position. If Aziraphale were an inch taller, he wouldn't have to rise on his toes...nope! The brain is not allowed to down that alley._

_"Uh-" Crowley paused. Damn those eyes. He hoped the waters were the color of this man's eyes if he ever had to die by drowning. Wow, that was morbid. A little to close to Shakespeare. Comfort? The man, his new photographer, was hinging his entire idea, which, if it was excellent, could help secure his career. Aziraphale was basing it on Crowley's comfort levels. Handsome, quirky, and kind. And smelt good. With all the modest clothing, wrapped up like a picture-perfect boxing day gift. Lips parting on a breath, he smiled. "Come home with me, Angel." Stared. Aziraphale stared at him like someone who stared at a horrible car accident on the highway. Like someone who stared at the telly, watching the live feed of an attack, the wreckage of a hurricane._

_"Excuse me?" Aziraphale stepped away, out of cinnamon and tobacco cage, that encased him within the frame of long arms because it hurt too much to look up at that angle. Because a man he knew for less than 72 hours just asked him to come home with him. A very, very attractive man. "What-"_

_"No." Crowley's hands flew up in surrender. "N-not that way. I am not asking you to come home with me in that sense. No, not at all. I didn't mean that. I would never." Crowley's head shook so hard it hurt. The mortification transforming into offense._

_"Well, that's good to kn-"_

_"No!" He was going to have a migraine if he kept shaking his head like this "That's what I meant at all. I would love you to come over to invite you over but, I wait no that's. You are a very handsome man. I just, I just met you. That would be presumptuous. Very bad. Plus, we work together. Not that working together does not mean you are unparsable. Not that I am actively pursuing you, not that I wouldn't like to, or I mean, it's just." Crowley's dry mouth tripped over his words. He was proving to be less than articulate for someone who was known for being so smooth and fashionable. Swallowing thickly, Crowley raked his black painted nails through his hair, a permanent display of frustration. "I mean you are, I. Can we forget that I ever said anything? Rewind to the snake question?" Crowley pleaded. He didn't know what to make of the expression on Aziraphale's face._

_"I suppose I have no choice, do I?" Aziraphale's response was as smooth as sandpaper. Scratchy and not overly pleasant. Crowley fidgeted beneath the lukewarm gaze leveled on him. Man, he had fucked up like clouds smothering the sun on what had been a perfect afternoon. And then the clouds were gone. "Of course, dear, honestly, you think you are the only one to phrase something incorrectly. How do you think that we got Shakespeare?" The solar flare smile of oranges and yellows was back._

_"I-" Crowley fell several yards short of an eloquent response. His ego hurt. Emotional whiplash had to be a diagnosis. He settled for a sugar cube smile, the perfect size for each cup of tea. Everyone takes what they will. "Sure thing Angel. Foot in the mouth and all that yeah?" Fingers snaked into his pocket, hips cockeyed like some overblown westerners hat._

_"Don't lean against the bookshelf. It's rude." Aziraphale chided._

_"S'not slouching." Crowley was sure there had been a hint of spice in that smile as his spine went ramrod straight. He would need to invest in a pair of points if this man was going to remain his photographer. It was bloody well good Crowley had a fondness for the stage. And Bee always told him he was one hell of a primadonna._

***

The back of his head hit the front of his headrest, an audible groan like the skip of gears on a touchy car. He kept replaying that incident over and over in a broken record of his mind. He had known the guy for two days, not even and had messed that up. Another long-suffering groan slithered loose as he straightened, eyeing the traffic before easing out into London traffic. His fingers drummed quietly against the steering wheel in time to the classic rock belting out of the speakers. Head bopping, lips pressed close in humming, the tension eased from his shoulders, settling for only his spine. Tongue running over brace straightened teeth, the arm of the private garage raised as he neared. Funny thing technology was, advancing so quickly and subtly that people often didn't notice until something malfunctioned and then realized that they had gotten so used to using it.

Four years ago, he would have had to beep a card or show his face to an attendant to get into the parking garage. Now he didn't even have to blink, a little button sensor. Pulling into his spot, the garage grew quite as he turned the Bentley off, no leather creaking as he got out, perfectly oiled. Keys jingling as he swung them by his hips, making his way into the halls for the lift. On a Saturday afternoon, all of his neighbors would be out and about or confined to their homes, unwilling to see people they didn't have to. There were no disruptions as he followed the grey carpeted hall. Like watching some old familiar movie with awful songs that refused to leave one's mind for days until finding another tune to play on loop. Like the broken victrola he had replaced last week. It seemed maintenance had oiled his hinges while he had been out and about, which was nice, he hadn't even put in a request for that. Toeing off his shoes, black socks clashed loudly with the bright colors of his Turkish entry rug, which in turn was stark stone walls. Next time he wanted a unit with exposed brick. That way, they didn't look as naked. Wall art wasn't his thing. At least none that he was willing to pay the price tag for. Although the statue that had been a high purchase of great value. It was the most significant thing in his modest three-bedroom flat. Inexpensive in comparison to the others of his social-economic status, not of his childhood home in the downs. Loping past the kitchen, his tongue itched for a heady merlot, but it would be better to check on Eden and Eve.

"Maybe I should cook tonight, can't let all that stainless steel go to waste. Right, girls." He left fingerprints on glass, pushing into the room. The temperature difference was stark. Where outside was hot and dry from the summer sun baking the earth, inside the internal greenhouse, it was moist, humid, and sticky. Just the way his plants liked it. Just the way his girls needed it. The nest addition to the room, stood proudly by the door, sizeable swiss cheese leaves hanging heavy in presentation. It would need to be shaped soon before it got any radical ideas, thinking it could get away with lounging and brown spots. Not in his greenhouse. His several thousand-pound master's degree would make sure of that. Something to put that embossed piece of wallpaper to use. Pulling his socks off and stuffing them in his pockets, he shucked the leather jacket upon a stack of terracotta. Filtered sunlight poured in through opaque ceiling tiles, the air thick and hot like an adamant lover. This is why he wanted Aziraphale to come home with him. Not for satin sheets softening a metal frame in a less than a warm room. Not for the state of the art kitchen that barely saw any use. Not the oversized screen for moving pictures, but for this. The greenery reaching for the stars, the tumbling water inside of small fountains, pretty and adding to the humidity. A cold hug found his ankle.

"Eden. Good afternoon." His sunglasses tucked safely into a back pocket. Leaning down, fingertips pressed against the nose of the recently molted python. Black scales carrying a healthy shine in the sunlight. "Oof! My dear, you have gotten heavy. I remember when you were a foot long, not eleven." Crowley hummed, donned now with a magnanimous living scarf. " And where is your sister-ah Eve." the gleam of opal scales amongst the bruised colored stalks of a dark star. Aziraphale had wanted to know if he was comfortable with snakes. That was an understatement. The stone floors of the greenhouse were heated, keeping the exposed stone of the pathway walls a comfortable temperature he could feel on the backs of his thighs as he relaxed. Raised beds were a blessing. The quiet hiss of scales against stone mingled with the trickling of water, punctuated by cotton dropping to the floor. It was too warm for black.

***  
"That had to have been one of the most strange Saturdays I have experienced in a long time." Aziraphale voiced his texting to his living room, his digital keyboard clicking as he responded to Tracey's query about his day. In her opinion, Crowley had to be more than just pretty if he had held Aziraphale's attention the entire afternoon. Turning the phone screen off, Azirphale turned his attentions to the three bags sitting patiently on his coffee table. One a dull brown with no decorations or endorsements whatsoever. This one held the two books on egyptology that Aziraphale had felt inclined to purchase from Newton's shop.

In the middle, dusty pink with 'kiss me red' stripes and in opulent scrawl 'Sweets on the corner.' Lips popping and pushing aside the pink taffeta paper that crackled in the most satisfying of manners, Aziraphale retrieved the bottom-heavy tart. A brown crust cradling cream that pillowed sugared strawberries, blueberries, and kiwis. Chocolate shavings adorned the masterpiece, that perfectly pompous little touch that let everyone know they were entering the land of a talented patisserie. Crowley had told him that he didn't have a sweet tooth, but after they had left Newton's shop in awkward shuffling and left in the Bentley once more, Aziraphale had expected the afternoon to end on such a note. That had been one of the few times that Aziraphale had been glad that he was wrong.  
***

_"So, are those the only materials you think that you will need?" Crowley cleared his voice, breaking the awkwardness that had proven durable even against the bebop that came from the old speakers._

_"For research perhaps. I was told we have a set construction budget." Aziraphale held onto the brown sack like a lifeline._

_"So, you have that clear of an idea?"_

_"I can't tell you."_

_"Wot?" Crowley's head jerked left to stare at him for a moment before turning back to the road._

_"I can't." Aziraphale elaborated. "I don't ever talk about my plans or what I am working on before it is complete and ready to be put into action. I just can't explain my process until it's done."_

_"Ah..." Crowley nodded. "See, I am the exact opposite. I like to vomit my ideas as they come along and build them that way....you must have been a terrible person to be in a group project with." he speculated, grinning when Aziraphale gifted him a chuckle._

_"Oh yes, disgustedly infamous for it if I do say myself. More than one professor pulled me aside to speak with me about the importance of fluid collaboration. That I would not always get to work solo in my career field."_

_"Didn't have much effect on you, did it?"_

_"To be honest, no, not really. But my projects, at least my portions, were always done on the timeline dictated and met every condition. High marks and all that."_

_"A+ student, eh?"_

_"Of course. You?"_

_"Only in the classes that mattered."_

_"But it was classes for your degree. All of that matters."_

_"You want to tell me where in my life have an ever had to figure out how to do long division or figure out the degrees of a triangle, and I will believe you."_

_"But perhaps someday-"_

_"Someday, I will need to do long division in a place where I won't have some access to a calculator in this day and age?"_

_"Well...alright, you do have a point."_

_"Exactly, those sorts of requirements are to line the pockets of the university endorsers."_

_"So, you're a pessimist."_

_"I prefer the term realist." Crowley hummed, pulling them from the lane and into another parking spot with ease._

_"Of course." Aziraphale nodded. That's what pessimists always say. It was the most garish sight he had ever seen. Snug between to respectable gray stone buildings sat a bright pink shop. Pattisere scrawled beneath baby blue lettering._   
_'Sweets on the Corner' beneath all of the labeling candy stripped overhangs shaded tables and umbrellas of pastel that housed several people, too many tables crammed in a tight space corraled by low set white fencing. A bell jingled loudly as two women exited the building, with bulging bags and a cookie apiece. A sweet shop that he had never heard of._

_'Oy Angel, please, easy on the nose prints on the window.' Crowley drawled behind him before popping out._

_"This looks delightful...how in God's green earth have I never heard of it." Aziraphale took the offered hand._

_"No social media presence. Don't want it. Little hideaway and all that. Means the food is divine." Crowley explained, closing the door and gesturing Aziraphale to follow along._

_"Well..." Aziraphale hummed, Deja Vu swept over him, reminding him of hours of historic photograph logs in University. There was even a soda fountain counter, right out of the fifties, cherry red stools, and cheap mirrors on the back wall. The hard soles of his shoes clicked against the black and white tiled floor to his delight. The inside looked nothing like the outside proposed. "This is delightful." Aziraphale gasped. In between each mirror was stacks of refrigerated shelving, artistic treats of various nationalities filled the cases, angles, and highlights accentuated by the fairy lights hanging beneath each shelf. The decor, the pastries, even the patrons. Aziraphale scanned those around him, a group of sunhat elderly ladies chatted happily in one corner over a gratifying chocolate cake. Just one table over a couple all draped in black and pierced in silver shared two plates of cream puffs, highschool girls laughing not too far in the back. It was all organized chaos. And it worked so well together._

_The cashier at the front counter, a high ponytail, and a plaid poodle skirt sipping away at an overpriced iced coffee from the coffee chain down the way. "You like it?" Crowley asked a canary grin._

_"It's delightful! I don't know how I didn't know this existed!" Aziraphale made his way over to one of the standing cases._

_"Part of the charm, I suppose. One of the reasons it's my favorite." Crowley followed him, Aziraphale looking up from pastel macaroons to look back at him._

_"One of the reasons?" Aziraphale questioned this was the first time today that Crowley fit in entirely here. This was also one of those places that welcomed everyone._

_"Yes, I'm not the biggest fan of sweets, but they do make my favorite." He smiled at the iced coffee girl who put the perspiring cup on the counter to set up a box and make her way to a case on the back wall._

_"That's wonderful." Aziraphale straightened, watching the girl reach up to grab a buttercream topped slice of cake. "Carrot cake is your favorite?"_

_"Absolutely. Most cakes, with all the frosting and the cake it's far too sweet. But with carrot cake, the buttercream is pleasing, but the cake itself is_   
_full of spices and more of a nutty flavor than sugar. How about you?"_

_"Oh, I just can't choose," Aziraphale admitted. "There are so many different options." He smiled, widening as Crowley's own responded to his._

_"Well, pick something. My treat." Crowley gestured. "But no rush Angel."_   
_"You spoil." Aziraphale beamed. Crowley was so considerate and seemed to go along with everything that Aziraphale needed. He was going to be an easy person to work with during the competition._

***  
"Who texts somebody at six am on a Friday morning!" Aziraphale exclaimed to no one but his steaming cup of tea. He stared at the screen as Beezle's name popped up across his phone.  
that

  
**'All of your props for the setup have arrived at the set, you did utilize that budget, didn't you.'**

**'I am sorry I didn't think that was a problem.'**

**'No, I expected it, its a lot, you'll need to come in early to help with all the setup. Crowley will be coming in early as well. everything is set and sealed, and the humidifiers started last night.'**

**'Humidifiers? I don't remember ordering those?'** Aziraphale set his cup down.

**'No, you didn't. Crowley provided those. He said that if his snakes were going to be used, then the temperature and humidity must be maintained properly. Be here within the hour. '**

Aziraphale put his phone down, nerves rolling the tea in his belly. It was Friday. Today was his first shoot. He looked to the two books sitting on the coffee table waiting to go in his book bag, next to the tabbed notebook. He was going to run his first shoot today. He needed it to go smoothly; he needed to win this competition. He didn't like that. His phone vibrated again.

' **One more thing, remember that you are not in charge today.'**

"What?" Aziraphale stared at the message incredulously. He didn't even get a chance to pick it up before the next message flashed.

**'It's not you, its the model. And good luck reigning in Crowley, he may have been nice last time, but if you pull on the leash too hard, he will bite.'**

**Author's Note:**

> My goal is to update every two weeks :)


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